


whatever a sun will always sing

by jelliebean



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AU, Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beauty and the beast kinda, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, New to all this, Protective Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelliebean/pseuds/jelliebean
Summary: Tony's arc reactor is failing, slowly, the light dying.  He's cursed, a product of his own actions.Enter Steve, (making a valiant attempt at) rescuing Bucky from breaking into Stark's place to find records of Project Rebirth.Slow burn. Obviously.Set in sort of mid-first Iron Man, but also mid-second IM? and very AU on the Captain America side.  Before Tony discovers who's behind all the bad stuff.Sorry, I had to up the rating starting Chapter 6.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New to this whole thing. I don't have a beta, or know how any of this works, honestly. Open to suggestions. Please be nice?

Tony knew it was his fault. A failing of his crippled heart. A payment that would come due, soon enough. A few months, he had, maybe more, maybe a little less.  Every time he looked at the reactor, it had lost a little more light, dark lines stretched wider across his chest. He took another look in the mirror, seeing the bags under his eyes and the unruly mess of hair.  The arc reactor still glowed. But soon.  Soon enough.  He sighed.

Jarvis’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Sir? One: James Barnes, sir.  He’s on the premises, trying to breach secure files.”

“Show me, J.”

A screen popped up. It showed a one-armed man, rifling through files—actual paper files stored in the basement.  Tony didn’t even know the last time he’d seen that storage room.

“What’s he looking for?”

“It appears to be something in Howard’s old files.  Something filed under Project Rebirth, sir.”

Ugh. Another petty criminal looking for some sort of super replacement.  Prosthetics, by the look of things.    

“Lock it down, J.”

The room went black.  Tony straightened his hair, wiped his hands on his shirt, and walked down.  Clearly, Barnes knew he was caught. It wasn’t like he could go anywhere. 

He entered the room and turned on the light.  The one-armed man was lounging on a filing cabinet, but Tony recognized bravado when he saw it.  Years of practice in perfecting just that air of not giving a shit.  Tony scanned him. Missing arm. Remnants of a tattoo on his shoulder.  Loose hair, falling out of the pink hairband. Wouldn’t have really pegged him for a pink hairband kinda guy.  Military, probably.  Ex-military, anyway.  And he owed them, he did.  But he was also in the middle of dealing with a long and involved catastrophe that (Tony was 95% sure) involved corporate espionage, a pissed off military, and his weapons ending up in places they shouldn’t have.  He couldn’t let that happen again. That would not be his legacy. “I wish I could just let you go,” he said. “But I can’t.  You know that.”

“Stark. The Merchant of Death. Here to take a shot?” the intruder asked, faux-casually. 

“Uh, maybe you didn’t notice, but I’ve also been in the business of life? Didn’t hear? It’s okay, only been all the headlines for the past eighteen months or so.  Intellicrops? Vaccines? Body armor? Sustainable energy?”

"I’ve been a little busy, you know, getting blown up.  Fighting the actual wars.  Not hiding behind lawyers, like a criminal,” the man sneered.

"Criminal? Says the guy who broke in? Literally broke windows,” Tony retorted, noticing the trail of glass on the floor, “to get in? What are you looking for—oh, don’t tell me—regeneration? Didn’t want to wait for something a little more government-issue?”

Barnes shut his mouth, defiant.

“No? Okay, no prob. I’ll just hold on to you until the cops come.” 

Barnes’ pocket buzzed, almost in response. 

“Sure, good ahead, Harrison Ford.  Your buddies looking out for you? Put it on speaker.”

Reluctantly, the would-be thief reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. 

“Bucky! What are you doing? I’m on my way to you. Didn’t I tell you not to be an idiot! Not to be a hero?”

“Stevie, wouldya just—“

“No, this is ridiculous. I tracked your pin. Idiot!”

“I don’t want you to—“

“Can it. I’m here anyway. What are you doing at Stark’s mansion? You wanted to be another one of his casualties? Didn’t get enough of the Merchant of Death’s destruction already?”

Tony rolled his eyes, pulling a packet of dried blueberries out of his pocket. Might as well have snacks during the entertainment.

“I’m fine,” Barnes told the mystery caller.  “I’m fine and you should go home. Stay out of it.”

“Nope. Already here. Gotta get your ass out of trouble.”

 “But it’s such a pretty ass,” Barnes said, batting his eyelashes theatrically at Tony.  Tony rolled his eyes again.  At this rate, his mother was going to be posthumously right after all, and they would get stuck this way. 

“Gross, Bucky,” his blind date said through the phone.

“Um, hate to break up the date,” Tony broke in, but really, who says “gross” anymore? Is this guy four?

“Who’s that?” the phone asked.

“Uh, Merchant of Death here.  You know, you two should really read up more on recent events, you know?”

“Oh jeez, Buck; what have you done?” the voice asked.  Tony could hear the engine of a bike shut off through the phone, then the heavy tread of footsteps.  Ugh.  A Neanderthal.  Tony could just picture a great, hulking brute, tattooed and bearded, leather vest… He did not have time for this.  The line went dead, just in time for Tony’s doorbell to ring.

“Let’s go, cupcake,” Tony said, indicating for Barnes to walk in front of him.  Heading up the stairs to the door, Tony inventoried the destruction the man had left in his wake.  How was it possible for a guy with only one arm to have broken so many things? Granted, most of the items in pieces had belonged to Howard, nothing that Tony himself held dear.  Except… the front door glass.  It was shattered.  And he’d personally (okay, well, Pepper had personally) commissioned that piece from some guy in Seattle.  But he’d paid for it.  And he’d liked it! Well, he’d at least liked that she liked it.  Close enough.  He stepped through the shattered panes, glinting sunlight in a brilliant rainbow across the walls.  It had been roses, he was pretty sure.  Irisis? No. It was red. Right, probably roses. Well, it was just silly to greet his robber’s buddy at the door like a butler.  He swallowed.  Not a day when he didn’t still miss the first Jarvis.  “I mean, you may just as well come in. Not like it’s secure anymore.”

Tony had a second to hesitate. Should he be nervous, with a potential giant baddy whom he had basically invited into his house? This Barnes, even with one arm, still looked like he could be pretty brutal in a fight.  Inwardly, he cursed himself briefly for giving Happy the day off.  But the man was driving everyone crazy and he really needed to take a day off.  Still, he had everything on camera. Jarvis watched all and could alert the police at any instant, anyway. He was going to be fine.  Just fine.

Neanderthal entrance in three… two… one…

And then the man stepped through the doorway, and Tony thought they might have to call 911 anyway.

He was breathtaking.  Literally.  Tony’s breath literally stopped as the man pushed the door open, the sunlight framed his shoulders—broad shoulders, sure, but Neanderthalian? Not a chance.  They tapered into a waist that was just unfair, and legs that went on forever.  That, and it all supported the prettiest face he’d ever seen. 

So.  Not a Neanderthal.

“Bucky! What did you think you were doing? I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark, it’s all my fault, I just—is that _a Chihuly_?” not-a-Neanderthal broke off in surprise.  “Oh my god—Bucky did you break that? It’s priceless!”

“Look, Stevie, you know why I was doing it.  What’s one little glass panel worth in return for safety from this a-hole’s tyranny?” man-bun said. But he was almost shamefaced. At getting caught, maybe. 

Tyranny? What tyranny? He’d never even seen these two. “Um, well, according to this a-hole’s accounting, about $850,000,” Tony interjected.  But seeing blondie’s crushed gaze, he added, “But it’s also priceless.”

Blondie (Stevie, Tony corrected himself in his mind) turned those blue eyes on Tony.  “Please, Mr. Stark.  Please don’t press charges against Bucky.  He… I know, he broke in, and he damaged,” his voice turned mournful, “this Chihuly and probably other things, but he’s just trying to help me out.  It’s my fault, and his service record is spotless. He’s been shortlisted for an experimental prosthetic treatment through the VA, but they won’t want to take anyone who’s gotten into legal trouble.”

Tony had recent experience with the military himself.  Owed a lot to the men and women in uniform.  Got a lot of them killed.  He could feel the suffocating heat of the desert, the stifling sand, the air that burned and exploded around him.  He tasted blood, sharp and metallic.  The humdrum vee.  How had he been so arrogant? He desperately wanted a drink for a second, like his lungs wanted air, instinctive, pressing, and sharp. But no, he didn’t do that anymore.  That’s what he owed them.  That’s what he owed Yinsen.  He shook his head once, to clear it. Blondie misinterpreted.

“Please! I’ll—I’ll pay you back. I’ll… I’ll fix it.” Steve swallowed, even as he said it.  How was he going to find the money to do that? And it wasn’t like he could really fix a broken glass sculpture.

“Stevie, we don’t have that kind of money,” Barnes broke in. 

“Well, I’ll work for you?” Steve suggested, hand coming up to awkwardly rub at his neck.  “I could… help clean it up, and then do repairs around here until it was all paid off?”

Tony almost laughed.  “You know I’m a mechanic, right? World’s best engineer? Greatest mind in science?”

Steve swallowed.  “Sure.  But I could be the hired help.  Do the heavy lifting.”

“All for your boyfriend here, huh?”

“Ugh,” Barnes grimaced, while Steve just made a face. Interesting.  So, not his boyfriend? “I’m the one who broke in. I should be the one to work it off. This isn’t about you!”

Steve turned away from Tony to face his friend directly.  Tony couldn’t help himself.  He noticed the set of his shoulders, ready for the confrontation, and the extremely shapely ass he would have liked to see under more friendly circumstances.  Barnes noticed him noticing.  But fuck it, he was Tony Stark, and that man had broken into his house.  So he grinned, to let Barnes know that he noticed the noticing.  Notiception! “Buck, you know you can’t do it,” Steve was saying. “Not with that arm…” he trailed off.  Took a deep breath. “And it’s not like I have anything more important going on right now.  It doesn’t matter for me.  It’s the least I can do.”

“Yeah, and you got nothing to prove, right?” Barnes shook his head.  His expression was defeated, and looked like habit.  A losing fight he was used to losing.

Tony wasn’t going to lie to himself here.  If this blonde giant weren’t so beautiful, he’d have killed this conversation in its inception.  As it was though, “I just fired my PA.  Well, not fired so much as promoted.  Well, I gave her the company.  So, I have an opening, as it were, for an assistant.” Barnes raised an eyebrow.  He knew exactly what Tony was thinking.  He’d seen Tony looking. He’d blush, but he really couldn’t be shamed.  Not by his would-be thief. “You know, handle all the things I don’t want to handle.  Pick up things for me.” He had a sudden urge to drop things just to see him bend over.  Down, boy, he told himself. “I just don’t like getting handed things.  You’ll have to do some paperwork, liaise with Stark Industries, help me evade Pepper—that’s my old PA. Sometimes that means all hours.” Tony could imagine blondie sleep ruffled and, well, honestly, looking sort of adorable.  How was a giant that adorable? And in his imagination? Whatever.  Business at hand.  “So, if you want it.  That’s what I got.  Start paying off the Chihuly.” He found he suddenly really wanted not-a-Neanderthal to accept.  But he had the upper hand, anyway. Wasn’t like the guy could actually say no without putting his friend in a bind. And somehow, Steve didn’t seem like the type of guy to do that.

Barnes started to reply--definitely stepping in to make sure Steve didn’t get himself in trouble--but Steve talked right over him. “Yes, sir.  I can start whenever you need.” He glared at Barnes.  “And Bucky will stay out of your hair. I promise.” Barnes sulked.

“Alright, Ken doll,” Tony said, noting how Steve winced a bit at the name.  Not comfy with the looks then. Weird, considering he’d won the genetic lottery somehow. “Start now.  I’ll have Happy bring the bike into the garage when he comes back.  Find you a room somewhere.”

“A room? Stevie, you can’t stay—“ Barnes started.

“No, Bucky.  You don’t get to do that.  I know why you were doing it, but you gotta get yourself that arm.  Nothing else.  Nat’s counting on you, so… Just go home.  I’ll be fine.”

Barnes glared at Tony.  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, although to be fair, Tony wasn’t sure which of them it was directed toward. He stepped through the shards of glass, muttering about indentured servitude as he went. 

Steve took a deep breath.  This was crazy, but it had been the truth. He didn’t have anything else going on right now.  He could best afford to work this out.  And, after all, who knows—maybe he’d pick up some useful skills that would actually transfer to a new job, work his way out that way.  He turned to face Mr. Stark, squaring his shoulders a bit, falling into parade rest probably without thinking about it.

Tony watched him, cataloguing his movement.  Military, clearly.  “Which branch?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Which branch were you in?”

“Oh.  Army,” Steve replied, barely biting off a sir, at the end.

Tony was surveying him.  He sort of imagined that Steve wouldn’t appreciate being called GI Joe, either.

“You wanna tell me what your buddy was after?”

Steve grimaced, wryly.  There was begrudging affection clear in his expression.  “Not really.” 

Loyalty.  Gotta like that. “Didn’t really think so.” Smiling internally, Tony popped another berry in his mouth.  “So, Steve? You got a last name?”

“Rogers, sir.”

Tony actually laughed, narrowly avoiding spitting a blueberry at the guy. “I’m not an officer, Rogers. Military is definitely not my style.”

Steve’s lips twisted—Tony’d hit a nerve. “Military doesn’t have enough style for you? Rather just sell the weapons to both sides?”

Ugh. Tony was done with that conversation for today.  He narrowed his eyes at Steve as he said, “Yeah, J, go ahead and find Rogers a room. Tell Pep I’m good on PAs for a while. Have her send someone over to get whatever Rogers needs from wherever it is he lives. Give him the tour.”

“Very good, Sir,” Jarvis’s voice sounded lightly amused.

Steve started, looking around for the source of the voice.  Tony smirked.

“And when you’ve settled, you can clean up this mess,” he said, indicating the shards of red and green glass covering the floor.  He turned and went back down to his workshop, flipping on the ACDC as he went.  Even if Steve was pretty, Tony had more important things to deal with. Things that wouldn’t talk back.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve followed Jarvis’s voice and the lights as he wandered through the house.  He stopped to leave his jacket and helmet in the room that Jarvis told him would be his, while he was here.   He asked Jarvis where to find a broom and dustpan, and cleaned up the fractured masterpiece.  Shards of crimson scattered like bloody remnants across the foyer, the evidence of Bucky’s crime.  Fragments of blue and green mixed with gold and clear glass. After he’d swept up the pieces, mourning the whole time, he found a mop and a bucket, thoroughly washing the floor so that no splinters of glass remained.  He was on his hands and knees, rag in hand, drying the patches of clean floor so there was no danger of anyone slipping, when the surreal nature of his morning began to hit him.  A cold motorcycle ride through New York, signing up to work for Mr. Stark, asking a bodiless voice for help.  Now that he thought about it, that voice sounded a bit cold, but perhaps that’s just the British accent.  Still, Monty had been British, in his old special forces platoon, and certainly didn’t sound that distant.  Maybe they were from different parts of England.  He caught himself and blushed. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Jarvis?” he asked, unsure of how to address a voice in the ceiling.

“Just ‘Jarvis’ will do, Mr. Rogers,” was the response that he felt _certain_ was colored by a somewhat benevolent amusement.

“Thank you, Jarvis.  I was just wondering, do you, er, did you, have a… background… in London? I don’t mean to assume anything, it’s just.  Your voice reminds me of a friend of mine. It’s probably silly.”

“That’s quite alright, Mr. Rogers.  I am modeled after someone who did grow up in London.  I, myself, being an AI system, have not had a traditional childhood as such.”

“Oh, of course,” Steve said, blushing further. “I should have realized.  I didn’t mean to sound inconsiderate.” Was it inconsiderate to remind an AI that he missed a childhood?

“Not at all, Mr. Rogers,” Jarvis replied. Steve could swear he was slightly less cold, but perhaps he was just getting used to having a voice direct him around through the ceiling. 

“Well, Jarvis, I think I’ve gotten settled, and it’s about noon.  Should I make Mr. Stark lunch or something? Did he tell you what to tell me?”

“Sir has not given me any instruction, but he has not yet eaten lunch.”

“Well, I can do that.  Is there anything specific he likes? Or, should I order something from somewhere? I…” Steve had no idea what Mr. Stark would eat.  What did rich people eat, anyway? Should he just order from Le Bernadin? Was that even open for lunch?

“Sir would probably appreciate a sandwich for lunch, if you were so inclined. The kitchen is this way,” Jarvis indicated. And now, Jarvis might be artificial, but Steve was definitely sure the voice was slightly amused again.  But he followed gamely along.  After all, this was his mess to clean up.  He could at least start by making Mr. Stark a sandwich.

The kitchen was spotless, all stainless steel, gleaming surfaces.  The sunlight shone softly through the window, catching on minute specks of dust floating lazily with the movement of air.  Steve washed his hands (the sink turned on by itself! And then off!) and found ingredients.  Ham, cheese, pickles.  Mustard.  He pulled a pan from one off the cupboards and butter from the fridge.  While he toasted the sandwich he found a pantry that held some chips and washed a few strawberries.  He tipped the sandwich out of the pan, sliced it neatly at an angle, and arranged the halves on a plate. Pulling a glass out of the cupboard, he filled it with iced tea and added a lemon wedge.  This he could do.  This was methodical.  It calmed him.  He could momentarily forget that he was here, being the personal assistant to a crazy billionaire in order to protect his best friend, forget that he was fleeing from the greedy grasp of a power-hungry maniac, forget all of that.  This.  This was routine.  This made sense. 

“Mr. Jarvis—“

“Just ‘Jarvis,’ please.”

“Sorry. Jarvis.  Could you take me to Mr. Stark?”

“Of course, Mr. Rogers.

Steve made his way down to the workshop, then knocked politely on the glass. He could see Mr. Stark inside, work gloves on, soldering gun smoking.  A robot arm held a piece of metal and another seemed to be holding a watering can. Steve waited for a minute.  But Mr. Stark appeared not to have heard.  He knocked again, a little louder.  Still nothing.

“Um, Jarvis? Could you maybe help me get Mr. Stark’s attention?”

“Of course, Mr. Rogers,” the AI replied.

Although he couldn’t hear anything, it was clear that Mr. Stark hadn’t noticed he was there.  He jumped, almost dropped the soldering gun, and turned to look at Steve.  He saw him say something, but couldn’t hear it.  The door clicked unlocked, and Steve opened it.

“What’s up, Rogers?” Mr. Stark asked, not looking at him and continuing to solder the small metal joint. “Wanted to see what it looks like in Death’s lair?” He was being a bit nasty, he knew.  Still, the accusation had stung.  

“I brought you lunch, Mr. Stark,” Steve told him, unnecessarily.  He didn’t know where to put it, and stood awkwardly, shifting his weight, unsure of his welcome.  He hadn’t been wrong, but then he hadn’t been kind either.

“Well, look at that.  What is that, a Cubano? I didn’t know you had it in you. Just put it on the workbench.” Tony looked over. It smelled delicious. A hot blonde bringing him grilled sandwiches for lunch? That was worth taking a break for.  Even if the idiot was on the wrong trail about the weapons. “Dum-E, hold the prototype.” Steve looked affronted for a second. Tony laughed. “No, not you, blondie. Steve, meet Dum-E.  Dum-E, Steve.” He gestured to the claw holding the metal shards. He took off the gloves and wiped them on a towel, shoved his glasses onto the top of his head. 

Steve knew better than to assume the claw was just a claw, and nodded.  “Pleased to meet you, Dum-E.”

Tony’s jaw dropped as his hand had a sandwich halfway to his mouth.  He snapped it closed.  Then he seemed to reconsider and took a bite of his sandwich, a strange look chasing across his face and disappearing.  “Huh, the army definitely didn’t teach you how to cook. Where’d you learn to do this? Nevermind, it doesn’t matter. Even Pepper couldn’t cook.  Did you taste this?”

Steve shook his head.  He actually didn’t know the protocol for this.  Normally he’d pack a bag lunch for himself, saving money. But how would he do that if he wasn’t going to be going home? He grimaced. It wasn’t even really home.  He was just crashing at Natasha’s, anyway.  It wouldn’t be hard for whichever person ended up going to get his stuff.  It was still all packed into his old military duffle. 

Tony scrutinized him.  “Why not?” He grinned. “Trying to poison me? New rule, you have to eat every time I eat.” He winked, teasing.

Steve blushed, then coughed, embarrassed.  “Look, Mr. Stark--”

“No worries, Rogers.  Look, make sure you feed yourself.  Mi casa, you know.  Besides, you sort of look like you need a lot of feedings. Not to make you sound like Shamu or anything. Just imagine that takes a lot of work to keep up.” Tony gestured at Steve’s general body, and Steve’s blush spread. Tony did not imagine the blush spreading across Steve’s chest.  He didn’t.  Or at least he tried not to. He took another bite, realizing it was the end of the sandwich. 

He sighed and stretched, arching his back to relieve the stress. “Look, Pepper has some paperwork to sign, Happy’s got some sort of background check forms, just indulge him, it makes it easier for everyone, and don’t let him bully you, not that he could with all that,” he flapped his hands toward Steve again. “And then I need someone to call the French division of SI and see where the negotiations are for the new StarkPhone, so I guess that means you.  Don’t worry, you don’t need to speak French. Just get the update.  Make sure you talk with both the SI leads and also with the French telecom authority.  I’d like to get that done within a week, but if they say two, we can live with it.  I’m pretty sure that’s what Pepper said, anyway. Alright, Rogers.  Thanks for lunch. I can’t remember when I had lunch last.

“J, start up my music again? Dum-E, put that in the discard pile.”

Steve was clearly dismissed, so he grabbed the empty plate and glass, letting himself out, strains of wailing guitars cutting off when the door closed. On his way up the stairs, he ran into a couple, bickering amiably, talking over each other.  They shut up abruptly when they saw Steve.

“Um,” Steve started, smoothly.

“You must be Steve Rogers,” the redhead said.  “I’m Pepper Potts.  I’m so sorry about this.”

“About wh-“ Steve began.

“Steven Grant Rogers.  Born in Brooklyn, New York.  Best friend since childhood, James Buchanan Barnes.  He enlisted. You somehow ended up as a captain.  Both served overseas, in Iraq first, two tours, Afghanistan for one.  Missions were mostly classified, but something’s not quite kosher there,” the man listed off, a threat clearly in his voice. 

“Ahh, well,” Steve began, “yes, they are classified.” He swallowed.  Hard. 

Miss Potts looked at the empty dishes in his hands.  “Did you bring Tony lunch? In his workshop? And he ate it?” Her voice rose on each sentence.

“Um, yes?” Steve replied, confused.

“Was that scotch?” Her tone was suddenly very sharp.

Was this how the superrich lived? A giant tumbler of scotch for lunch? “Iced tea, Ma’am,” he supplied, bewildered. “With a slice of lemon.”

Miss Potts eyed him speculatively, an eyebrow raised to incredible heights.  Then she turned her suddenly rather spiky gaze on Happy.  Happy swallowed, cowed.  She turned back to Steve, smiling kindly.  “Please, call me Pepper,” she said, extending an immaculately manicured hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Ma’am. Ms. Potts.  Pepper, I mean,” he stumbled, blushing again.  Her gaze went even more shrewd. 

“Happy here is going to have you do some paperwork because he is _so pleased_ that you are here to work for Mr. Stark.  Aren’t you, Happy?” she asked, somehow intimidating for such a small woman.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.  “Uh, here you go, Steve.  Just fill these out.”

“Oh, but I’m not an employee,” Steve began.

“No, but we don’t like strangers,” Happy told him. Then, looking quickly at Pepper, “Which you clearly aren’t. But it’s good to have your information.  You know, in case of an emergency.” He looked back at Pepper, who smiled ever so slightly.  “So, you know.  I’ll be up to see you in a minute.  Get you a badge. Which you have to wear, at all times.” He glared slightly. 

“Just run along, Steve.  We’ll both be up in a few minutes. And thank you, for bringing down lunch.” Pepper smiled at him and started clicking her way down the stairs toward the workshop.

Steve cleaned the kitchen before filling out the forms.  Washing dishes was also meditative.  Calming.  He washed everything, dried it carefully, and put it away.  Jarvis mentioned they had a dishwasher, but Steve just thanked him, and said he didn’t mind.  That he found it relaxing.  He ended up snacking on some of the bits and pieces left over from Mr. Stark’s sandwich, and a handful of chips.  But he didn’t feel right eating all of Mr. Stark’s food.  Not that he thought Mr. Stark would add it to his bill or anything, but the whole arrangement was a little odd.  Besides, he didn’t want to waste the ends and odd bits.  That’s just how he was raised. 

The forms asked for standard employee information, but he still didn’t really want to give anything away. Nothing he didn’t have to, anyway.  Most of it wasn’t a big deal, since his parents were already dead.  Place of residence? Well.  Here, he guessed.  He wasn’t going to drag Natasha into it.  Contact in case of emergency? Bucky.  Last place of employment? The army.  Those were discharge papers that he had fought hard to win.  He had only ever wanted to look after Bucky, anyway.  Steve filled out as much as he could.  References? Pretty much Bucky.  Who else would he have listed? Monty? Pretty sure he was with MI6 right now.  Last he’d heard, Dernier was on some top-secret research problem in Switzerland.  Jones was still with the military, but not officially.  It was one of those things.  And Steve was pretty sure that both Morita and Dugan had been flown to some country in the middle of Africa to help a transitioning government.  Besides, he didn’t want to get anyone else involved.  Although, given that Mr. Stark had a functioning AI, that might be a lost cause.  Still.  Steve wasn’t just going to give up anyone else’s name. He signed at the bottom, eyeing the mostly blank form balefully.  It was a paper reminder of what he no longer had. He shook himself.  Enough with the maudlin thoughts.  He had work to do.

Maybe he had time to call the French division before Happy got back to him?

Just as he wondered where the phone was—was he supposed to use his own phone? It still flipped open and was so old he wasn’t sure how many more times he could get it to power on.  Was that secure?—Happy trudged up the stairs.

“Alright, Rogers.  Filled out the forms?”

“Yes, sir.”

Happy looked pleased at being called sir, but the expression faded as he looked over the forms.  “There’s like nothing here.  What are you trying to pull?”

“I don’t have family, sir.  I’ve been in the military since I turned 18.  I don’t have anything else to add to the files.”

Happy scowled at him.  “Hm.  I’ll be checking through this more.  Your personal dossier was remarkably lacking when I pulled it from DOD.  Yeah, I have friends at DOD.  I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Steve’s heart sank.  “It’s the truth, sir.  Bucky’s one of my only friends.  Natasha, that’s his girlfriend, we met in Iraq.  That’s about it.  I really don’t want to cause any trouble, you know.”

The sound of Pepper’s heels clicked quickly into the room.  “And I’m sure you won’t, Steve.  Happy just likes to be diligent.  But he understands, don’t you, Happy?” She turned a razor gaze on him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Happy muttered sullenly. Steve wasn’t sure he was going to let the issue drop, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.

“Good.  And Steve, thank you so much for feeding Tony lunch.  Let me get you set up.” Pepper pulled out an envelope from her purse and shook it onto the table.  Here’s your credit card, for shopping for groceries and anything else Tony needs you to pick up.  That includes meals for you,” she said, giving him a keen look. “A key to the BMW.  That’s for your use for errands.  A StarkPhone.  It’s secure.  But if you’re teleconferencing, use the office next to your room instead.  Also, anything you need.  My number is on speed dial; it’s #2. Tony, of course, is #1.  Alright.  Well, I think you have a call going to SI France soon, right? We’ll get out of your hair.”

Miss Potts took another look at him and slowed down a bit.  She tripped over to him in her shockingly tall stilettos.  She was almost as tall as he was in them. 

“Steve,” she said, slower.  “I know what you’re doing here.” Steve felt his face pale, but she just kept talking. “I think it’s really sweet of you to try to atone for your friend.  I think you’ll find that Tony will surprise you. That Merchant of Death thing, that’s not him anymore.  I think, if you give him a chance, you’ll find he’s a good person.  Not perfect, but a good man.” She smoothed his shirt in an almost maternal manner, and turned to collect her purse. 

“Happy, drop me by the airport, would you?”

“Of course, Miss Potts,” he said, hurrying to catch up. 

“Goodbye Pepper, Mr. Happy,” Steve called to their rapidly disappearing figures. 

Was it possible for silence to sound amused? Because Steve was pretty sure it did.  Or maybe he was just overreacting, taking things personally.  He did that, he knew.  “Jarvis, did I…” He stopped.  He wasn’t actually sure what to ask. 

“I think what you mean to ask is what Mr. Hogan’s last name is. Although I think he would be pleased if you merely continue to refer to him as ‘Sir,’ Captain.” 

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Steve said, making his way toward the office near his room.  He paused.  “You don’t need to call me Captain. I’m not.” He swallowed. “I’m not in the army anymore.”

“Of course, Captain Rogers,” Jarvis replied, completely seriously, for all Steve could tell.

He opened the door and found a complete office set up. The wall was clearly intended to function as a screen, and the desk had a notepad, a Starkpad, and something he was pretty sure was a phone.  He picked up the Starkpad.  At his touch, it pinged with three new emails.  He swiped them open, seeing that they were all from Pepper.  It gave him instructions on how to call SI France, with whom to liaise, and what he needed from them.  There was a quick note at the bottom.  _Batroc. Handle with care._  

Well.  He could do that. Cryptic, but he could definitely make a plan.

He started the conference call, introducing himself as Steve Rogers, the new PA for Mr. Stark, and apologizing for conducting the call in English.  Engineering seemed to be on the up and up.  Within four days, they should be fully operational.  Not a problem.  He thanked them politely and told them he’d get the information to Mr. Stark.  That screen closed, and only Batroc was left. 

“Mr. Batroc, it’s important to Mr. Stark that the regulations are cleared and paperwork is signed before Monday,” Steve said.  “The accords have to be signed by the Communications Minister in order for us to start distribution. I’m not really sure what’s involved, but do you think you could get those signed by Friday night? I’m sure Mr. Stark would really appreciate it.”

“Of course, Mr. Rogers.  But these matters are delicate, no? And we are working as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, I know,” Steve replied, all innocence and guileless charm.  “Mr. Stark was just trying to get the Starkphone rolled out because of the new campaign.  You know,” he looked down at his SI France portfolio, “donating 10% of the proceeds to developing better clean water facilities in former French territories. The faster he can get the facilities going, the better, is all he thinks.” Steve rolled his eyes a bit, trying to get on Batroc’s good side—building camaraderie against bosses who didn’t see the whole picture. 

Batroc held up a finger, telling Steve he’d be back in a minute.  Steve could still hear a one-sided conversation, voice low but, of course, Batroc also had nothing to hide from him. He scanned what he could see of the office in front of him.  The mobile phone on the desk, a second on a shelf behind him next to a photo of Batroc on a beautiful yacht off the coast of Monaco. 

Batroc reappeared, sitting down heavily and clunking his mobile onto the desk by a set of three Montblanc pens.  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rogers. I’m afraid that the accords won’t be able to be signed for at least another three weeks.  But we are working as fast as we can.  It’s just, everything is all rushing with you Americans.” He sighed. “I’ll update you when I can.”

With a nod, he signed off. 

Interesting.

Steve sat for a moment, making sure of what he had just seen.  “Jarvis,” he called, after a second.  “Do you record the video conferences?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“That’s what I figured.  Could you freeze the frame when Batroc is speaking to his secretary? And, could you enhance the audio in the background?”

“Very good, Captain Rogers.”

A display of the office appeared on the wall, and he could hear the conversation heard off screen in greater clarity.  Didn’t prove anything, but… He pulled up Google and started running searches. And since when did Tony Stark care about water in developing nations? Algeria? Tunisia? Chad? These countries weren’t even on most Americans’ list of known nations.  What was this all about?

“Ok, Jarvis.  Could you send that photo to Mr. Stark? I need to bring him an update.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“Thanks, Jarvis.”  Technically, maybe, Steve didn’t really need to thank an artificial intelligence, but it just seemed wrong not to.  After all, he was doing something Steve had asked him to do.

He took his notes and the portfolio down to the workshop.  Tony had blueprints up on all the walls.  At a glance, he could see they were for some sort of camp layout.  Water distribution systems, restroom and shower facilities, giant kitchen stations.  A library of sorts.  A fence surrounded it, though.  To keep people in? Or to keep people out?

He knocked on the door.

“Jarvis?” Steve asked.

“Of course, Captain.”

He could see the effect of the music stopping.  Mr. Stark looked around, surprised, for another second.  He saw Steve, looked briefly confused, and then seemed to remember who he was.  Not Pepper, that’s for sure.  With a wave of his hand, he collapsed the blueprints and they disappeared. 

The door popped open, and Steve entered.

“What’s up, Rogers? What did France say?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Mr. Stark.  I think I saw something, but… you’d know better than I would.”

“Truth! And they say young people don’t respect their elders anymore!”

Steve suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.  Well, score one more for Mr. Stark, then.  But still, he had a job to do.  An $850,000 job.

“So, engineering seems to have worked out all the kinks,” Steve began, and Tony tried very hard not to think about the word “kinks” coming out of his mouth.  It didn’t work all that well.  “But, I hit a snag in TeleCom Legal.”

“Ugh.” That was a boner killer. “Those snooty bastards have been jerking us around for weeks.  What is it now?”

“Well, Batroc says that he can’t get it done.  He says the accords can’t be signed for several weeks.  But… Here’s the thing.  Jarvis?”

“Of course, Sir.” At once, a display of Batroc’s office, sans Batroc, appeared.  Steve was looking at the screen, and missed the way Tony started at the idea of Jarvis calling anyone but him “sir.”

“And play audio?” Steve asked.  Once the audio was playing, Steve paraphrased.  “He’s telling someone to convert dollars into diamonds.  Look, I mean that alone doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but if you look at his office, see,” Steve pointed, “that’s a HammerTech phone—his third mobile—and that’s the one he was using, and that photo on the yacht was taken in Monaco.  Hammer lives in Monaco.  I ran a search, and it turns out the yacht is named _The Leaper_.  That’s what he used to call himself when he was in school and competing in kickboxing.  But he’s just a low-level bureaucrat.  There’s no way he has the money to buy a yacht.  Especially not one like that.  Not on his own. And I read through HammerTech’s public declarations for the French market—they want to release their new model early next week.  I think he’s trying to get a jump on you.”

Mr. Stark stared at him.  He started to flush, he could feel it. 

“J?” he asked, without removing his eyes from Steve’s face. “Confirm translation?”

“That is correct, Sir.  Mr. Batroc is indeed demanding that currency is converted to diamonds.  And Captain Rogers’s other information is also correct, including financials.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Tony turned to Steve. “Ok.  You.  So.  You speak French? Where’d you pick that up?”

“In my old unit, Sir.” Steve realized, as he said it, his posture was stiff, spine drawn tall. He willed himself to relax.

“Hm.  Who knew you’d be so useful?”

“Well, Miss Potts sent me a note, Sir.  She said she didn’t trust Batroc. I just kept my eyes and ears open.”

“Modest, too, hm? You develop a plan of attack that involved playing dumb?” Tony’s tone was curious, rather than sharp.

Something loosened up a bit in Steve’s shoulders. “Me? I’m just a kid from Brooklyn,” he said with a wry grin. 

Tony barked out a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure you are.  And I bet Batroc bought that, hook line and sinker.

“Alright, J.  Do what you gotta do. Relay the information to Pepper.  Get legal on it.  I want ground broken on those wells by next Friday, you got it?”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis replied, equably.

“Well done, Rogers.  You saved us a bunch of money. What do you think, J, about $50,000 in delays, another $300k in market share once HammerTech has to work through the ethics committee?”

“I think that is an accurate estimate, sir.”

“Alright, J.  Take it off his bill.” Tony tossed a glance toward Steve to see his mouth hanging open.  “Close your mouth, kid, before you pick up flies.  You saved the company money. You earned it.”

Steve just stared.  This was not what he expected from the playboy, billionaire, weapons dealer.

Tony sighed.  “Look, I’m not a monster, okay?”

Steve snapped his mouth shut. He felt like he should say that he knew that, but… the Tony Stark he knew from the press, from the weapons he’d had pointed at him, from his experience with Howard…

That didn’t really square with what he had learned and seen today.  He hesitated. 

The spark, the light that was in Tony’s eyes went out.  “Good job, kid. J, music.” He turned away from Steve and Steve felt the cool dismissal again.  Drums and guitars clashed, serenading his exit. 

He went up the stairs, considering.  He turned the questions over in his mind for a bit before he asked. “Jarvis, does Mr. Stark not drink anymore?”

“That’s correct, Captain Rogers.”

“Is he… Is that… Has that been good for him?”

“Indeed, Captain.  He prefers to stay sober, now.  He has found it intensely helpful, and so has Ms. Potts. He finds that he uses his time more wisely and is less vulnerable to being taken advantage of when he is sober.”

Well, that was interesting.  And Jarvis was very chatty for a robot.  Steve thought, anyway, not having had a lot of experience with other AI. Sure, Jarvis was his master’s creation, bound to see Mr. Stark in the best light.  But still—who was taking advantage of him? “I see. Did Mr. Stark leave instructions for me after the SI France call?”

“He did not.  Perhaps you would like to visit the gym, since you have no duties at the moment. Miss Potts left your belongings in your room, earlier.”

That did sound good.  Steve returned to his room, finding his duffle bag on his bed.  Funny how quickly he thought of it as his bed.  He opened the duffle.  Toothbrush, comb, clothes.  He really didn’t leave the army with much.  And yet, with too much.  He sighed.

He put his toiletries in the bathroom, then changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt.  He followed Jarvis’s directions down to the gym, starting on a heavy bag after stretches.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony hung up on his call to Pepper, confident Batroc would be taken care of.  So, Rogers was maybe more than just a pretty face. And plush lips. And broad shoulders. And great ass. Maybe.  Well, maybe he’d actually be helpful, rather than just eye candy.  No reason Tony couldn’t have both, after all.  Seems like Barnes breaking into the house was possibly not the worst thing that had happened to him this week.  Certainly not any worse than the latest round of articles on him. Sure, some of them did report on the SI France deal, and the zika vaccine prototype SI had developed.  But most of them were still harping on the weapons that ended up in enemy hands.  And Tony was trying to find them—he was.  He got Obie to work on them right away, told him to take whatever part of financial and legal to find how the weapons got away from the company in the first place.  Obie would get to the bottom of it.  Tony relied on him, and Obie always pulled through. Always had an eye on the company.

Tony pulled up the refugee camp blueprints again.  They were just about ready.  Maybe one printed copy, go over it with a fine tooth comb, get it into production immediately.  With Steve’s quick catch on Batroc, they really could start breaking ground on the wells next week.  And that meant construction could start on the refugee camps in Pakistan and Oman within the month.

“Print, J.  Make it so,” Tony ordered, starting to wind down. He checked his phone.  Three text messages from Rhodey, all wondering why Happy was so upset, what blonde giant he was keeping in his tower—had he found Rapunzel?—and no, he couldn’t get confidential files just so Happy could print badges, and what on earth was going on? Tony grinned.  Good old Rhodey.  He’d text him back after he went over the blueprints, Tony decided.  He rolled up the plans, patted Dum-E on the arm, and left the workshop for the formal office. 

The smell of pizza caught him on his way up the stairs. Jarvis was the best.  How did he know to order pizza every time Tony got hungry?  Besides the fact that he’d been invented by a genius, obviously. 

“You, are a dream.  You are seriously, the best thing. I love you.  You complete me,” Tony rambled to Jarvis, following the smell of delivery. He stopped short as he turned the corner and saw Steve Rogers, freshly showered by the look of it and wearing a shirt that was just worn enough to cling rather enticingly, slicing a pie in the middle of the kitchen.  Steve promptly blushed, his cheeks pinking just slightly. 

“Look, Rogers, I’m sorr—did you _make_ that pizza?” Tony was incredulous, but he didn’t see a take-out box.  How had he done that? Tony was a genius, and Italian, and he couldn’t make pizza.  A negroni, sure.  Pizza? Surely you had to take lessons for that.

“Well, you had the pizza oven… I mean, it’s just, Jarvis said,” Steve struggled.  He stopped himself. Focused. “You had a pizza oven, and Jarvis said you liked pizza.  You had all the ingredients.” He didn’t seem sure if he should be embarrassed or not, and appeared to be erring on the side of embarrassed. 

“J, did you know we had a pizza oven?” Tony asked.

“Yes, sir.  Miss Potts had the workmen install it.  She felt, since you enjoy pizza so regularly, that it might behoove you to have the ability to make it on the premises, sir,” Jarvis added primly.

“Huh.”  Tony eyed the pizza.  The crust looked crispy, with caramelized bits of tomatoes peeking out from beneath the bubbling cheese.  Pepper was a genius. He turned back to Steve, who seemed to have gotten himself under control. “All right, Brooklyn.  Show me what you got.”

“I’m sure this isn’t anything like what you normally get, Mr. Stark,” Steve began apologetically.  Then he added, “But, then, you live in Manhattan, so you probably don’t know the real thing anyway.  You wanna knife and fork with that?” The look he turned on Tony was pure innocence. 

Tony promptly choked on nothing.  “Did you just…?”

Steve just blinked, complete sweetness. 

Then he smirked.

Tony was in love, alright, but it wasn’t with Jarvis. Who was this little shit, anyway?

“Give me that, pizza snob,” he demanded, grabbing his plate and sitting at the counter.  “You’re actually worse than your friend.  And he broke a Chihuly.”

Steve just turned to the fridge and grabbed Tony a Coke. Then he added a pink straw with a paper umbrella on it, and handed it over, grinning. 

Sassy. Tony rather liked it.

Folding his slice, he took a bite.  Ok, Steve was maybe not kidding.  This was actually delicious. And from an oven in his kitchen? Amazing.  He realized Steve was still standing in the kitchen.  “Sit, Rogers.  Have pizza.  You’re allowed to have pizza. You have to eat, you know.”

Steve hesitated, then hooked a stool over from behind him, and grabbed a slice.  “So, how long has this clean water thing been going?” he ventured. His lips were shiny, and Tony had the urge to lick it off.  He’d never found grease quite so sexy before.

“It’s no big thing,” Tony began to say, when Jarvis broke in, speaking over him.

“Sir has been actively developing the clean water project since returning from Afghanistan,” Jarvis announced. Where did that come from? It wasn’t like Jarvis to volunteer extra information.

“I think that’s amazing, Mr. Stark,” Steve said, earnestly.  “When I was overseas, we’d be in villages where there were no functioning wells.  Sometimes there would only be one well for a whole village, and the women would have to line up for hours. The irony, you know? Because it looked just like our textbook photos of the oil crisis in the 1980s.”

Tony didn’t really know how to respond. 

“Sir has actually been developing the program since he was at MIT.  His first notes about the program were taken just after his 16th birthday,” Jarvis put in.

Tony was beyond embarrassed.  It was true.  But somehow putting this all in front of this relative stranger—especially a stranger who actively disliked him less than a few hours ago—made him feel exposed.  “Sure.  Well, you know, probably hung over or drinking, I don’t really remember, and you know, liquid, makes you think about water, and so, you know, wells…” Tony babbled.  “So, I’ve got to go, thanks for food.” He practically ran out of the room, hooking another slice onto his plate as he left, but he could hear Steve quietly ask Jarvis another question.

He actually did remember this exact day.  He had turned sixteen a month before.  Maybe a little less. Tony’d just met Rhodey, who knew he was going to be Air Force no matter what, and was already looking at areas where he would be likely involved in conflict.  Not surprisingly, the Middle East was a hot zone.  They’d been debating how to solve issues, like the two semi-idealistic, half-drunk, very narcissistic idiots that they were.  Rhodey had brought up the example of post-WWI Germany as compared to post-WWII Japan, building a case for providing education and infrastructure as a low-cost way to avoid future conflicts.  Eventually, drunk off their asses and sitting on the floor of the dorm, they’d cobbled together a proposal, sent it to Howard, and finished off the rest of the single malt. 

The next morning, before Tony’s alarm could go off, Howard had called, asked him what kind of idiot he thought he was, told him they weren’t there to solve the world’s problems, and hung up on him with a final warning not to waste his time.  Tony’d shoved the plan into a binder and hadn’t looked at it again until he came home from Afghanistan, the taste of dust bitter in his mouth. Howard had been wrong.  He had.  Tony repeated it to himself, over and over.  He owed it to the world, after creating the weapons, the Jericho, the Stingray.  He owed it to them to make it better.  Howard’s legacy would not be his.  It wouldn’t. That was a promise.

 

\--

 

In the kitchen, Steve cleaned up the mess from dinner, carefully washing and wiping each dish.  Tony Stark was not what he had expected.  Sure, he was slick, and talked fast, and worked with the privilege of money, always sure he could buy his way out of the problem.  But still.  Anyone who took profits and decided to dig wells? Maybe he wasn’t what Steve had thought.  And yes, he thought he’d heard something about intellicrops—low water usage varietals of wheat, corn, and alfalfa—suitable for use in the more inhospitable climes.  Then again, Bucky was missing an arm.  Courtesy of Stark weaponry.  It literally said so, on the side.  Branded and everything.  What kind of a traitor sells weapons, no matter what the reward, to the enemy?  And, did that really seem like the same person who was digging wells? Then there was the thing with Howard…

“Jarvis,” Steve began. “How long have you been with Mr. Stark?”

“Sir created prototypes of me when he was quite young.  In fact, he made the original designs when he was in his early twenties, just after his family died.”

“Is he… all alone?” Steve knew exactly what that felt like.  He’d never been more alone, he thought, than now.  When he was younger, before his mom died, she’d always been there for him.  Bucky had been by his side forever.  But now his mother was gone, and Bucky was battling his own demons, with Natasha’s help.  Not that he begrudged that—he was overjoyed to see his friend happy.  It helped assuage some of the guilt he felt.  He’d been the one calling the shots that day. And he got out without a scratch. It was Bucky who bore the brunt of the attack, who wore the literal scars. “Does he not have other family or close friends?” He didn’t mean to pry, but this wasn’t the Tony Stark that the world saw.

“Sir has several close friends: Ms. Potts, Mr. Rhodes, Mr. Hogan.  But, if you allow me to say so, I would postulate that Sir does not make close friends easily, and less so since he was younger.  Especially since the media tend to vilify him, and forget the good he does. I would say, Captain, that he has made significant efforts to create a better world, especially in the past few years.”

That was a very complete answer from an AI.  An AI who was clearly very fond of Mr. Stark.  But still, it sounded like it was warranted.  And sure, maybe the media was unfair. And yet, there was Bucky.

Steve put away the last dishes and picked up the set of forgotten blueprints to set them aside, take them to Mr. Stark’s office after he wiped down the counters.  They were clearly the same structures that had been displayed in Mr. Stark’s workshop today.  The same water distribution systems and restroom facilities.  The same kitchen stations. The same fence.  Now, looking more carefully at it, Steve could clearly see the design layout as a refugee camp.  The logic and design was beautiful.  The thought process behind the placement of facilities that ran on generators, that provided hot water.  He traced the lines with the tips of his fingers. 

This was truly thoughtful, clarity and intent showing in each detail.  He noticed the notation in the upper right corner.  Oman/Pakistan.  So, refugee camps from ISIS, from the Taliban.  Steve’s mouth tightened.  This he knew. Without thinking, he picked up the heavy pen that clipped the pages together, adding notations throughout.  The security was good, but it needed to be heavier in the girls’ quarters.  The school rooms should be separated, and the building for school girls reinforced.  There needed to be a temporary mosque.  Prayer rugs for those who lost theirs in flight.  The muezzin’s tower should be more centralized, and protected from sniper fire.  The wells should be dug deeper, about another 10 meters—Steve had led one mission against a local insurgent who was targeting water systems that weren’t dug deep enough. The filtration system should also be equipped for bioweaponry prevention.  A greenhouse for local food production.  It wouldn’t be enough, but it would help with some of the vitamins and minerals.  The area was good for growing oranges, pomegranates, onions.  They could grow fruit and vegetables to help prevent scurvy and other malnutrition problems that weren’t as effectively covered by the food donations.  

Steve caught himself as he was sketching in small orange trees. 

Oh, god.

These were Mr. Stark’s blueprints.  What had he done? He was supposed to be helping, not sticking his nose where it didn’t belong! Mr. Stark had told him just this morning, he was an engineer—the foremost in the country.  And Steve was an unemployed veteran.  He had no training in architecture or mechanics; he had no right to mess with Mr. Stark’s documents. And he’d written it all in pen. Steve was sure that Mr. Stark could print another copy, but it was the hubris. It was the arrogance of his actions.  He’d overstepped his bounds.

He might have just lost out on the whole thing.  What if Mr. Stark decided to scrap the whole idea after this? After all, it wasn’t like he’d done very much to help—he’d what, brought him some food? He’d barely lasted a day. Mr. Stark wanted a PA, not a wise guy.   

Steve hung his head for a second.  He knew Bucky wouldn’t blame him, but still.  It had been the one thing he could do—help out Mr. Stark to pay for that sculpture.  A sculpture that Bucky only broke because he’d been trying to help Steve in the first place. 

He took a deep breath and rolled up the blueprints, tucking them under his arm, and marched straight to Mr. Stark’s office.

It was empty.  Small mercies. Steve set the blueprints on the desk and retreated to his room, repacking his few belongings into his duffle.  He fully expected to be expelled from Mr. Stark’s mansion when he found the blueprints.  It was only 9pm or so, but Steve was exhausted.  He’d made a mess today.  Tomorrow, he’d clean it up, and find a way to help Bucky fix it.  Again. He laid down on top of the covers in the giant bed in his room.

Sleep didn’t come easily. He tossed and turned, trying to find peace.  He had too much on his mind, anyway.  Around 10:30, he finally gave up.  Steve laced up his running shoes, popped in earbuds, and headed out.  He didn’t have a destination in mind, and he was fine with that.  He just ran.

 

\--

Pain, sharp—burning him from the inside, eating through his veins. Debris, falling all around. Heat, salt, sand.  Bucky, bleeding out on the ground.  The high whine of an incoming missile.  The sharp outline of the Stark name on the missile casing.  A puffy, grasping face with a court order, smiling slyly at him.  Burning pain. Debris.  Heat. Salt. Sand. Bucky. Blood. Whistle.

Steve pulled up sharply from his run, shaking his head to clear it.  He bent forward at the waist, letting the blood go to his head for a moment.  As he stood up slowly, he noticed there was a car waiting next to him. A silver Audi. Mr. Stark. Fuck. How long had he been there?

“Mr. Stark, I…” Steve started.  Then he stopped.  He had no idea how to finish that sentence.  _I’m sorry for messing up your blueprints? I want to know why you sold weapons to terrorists? I want to know_ if _you sold weapons to terrorists? I’ll leave if you want me to? I have no idea how to pay you back?_ He had nothing.

He felt naked, small, as Mr. Stark continued to watch him, observing, almost as if he was one of the engineer’s many projects.

“Are you running away?” Tony asked. 

“No.  Just running.” Steve wanted to tell him more, ask for forgiveness, demand answers.  But he was just so tired.

“Did you make those changes to my blueprints?”

Steve swallowed.  “Yes.  I’m sorry.”

Tony continued staring at him, tracking his movement.  Then: “Get in.”

Steve dropped his gaze, ashamed.  He moved toward the car, then hesitated. “I can’t.  It’s leather. I’ll mess it up.”

Tony choked.  Maybe it was a laugh.  “Seriously, Rogers.  Get in.”

Steve hesitated another moment.  But the exhaustion bled through him, invading every cell.  He got in, buckling his seat belt.  He noticed Mr. Stark noticing, but neither of them decided to comment on it. 

Tony didn’t say much on the ride back.  It took almost half an hour.  The clock on the dashboard said 1:12 when they got back to the tower. Steve sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with a small chain around his wrist, not asking questions.  He didn’t ask how he’d been found.  Maybe he hadn’t thought about it. On the other hand, with a brain like the one who made the changes to the blueprints… Not likely.  Maybe he was just tired.  He had run well over twenty miles.  If Tony had been anyone else, no telling where he would have ended up.  In fact, without Jarvis, it still would be hard to say.  That, and, of course, Tony had been pacing him for almost an hour.  He knew that look—the terrorized, haunted feel.  Guilt? Remorse? That was the look of a man being chased. By his own actions, his own sins.  Maybe the sins of others as well.  Well.  He knew how that felt, too.

Tony pulled into the garage.  He turned to look at Steve.  Steve was still looking at his hands, playing with the metal chain on his wrist. He looked defeated.

“Steve,” Tony said, maybe a little gently. He felt for the guy, after all.  “Go get cleaned up.  If you’re awake after that, come down to my office.  If not, there’s no emergency. Get some rest.” Whatever this guy’s deal was, Tony wasn’t going to make it any worse. 

Steve unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car.  Then he turned around, one of the shop towels in hand, and started wiping down his seat.

Tony just stared at him. Who was this guy? Okay, now he was seriously going to have to have Jarvis find out more. He hadn’t been bothered when Happy said the searches turned up highly classified missions.  That wasn’t surprising, and it wasn’t very concerning, either.  Half Rhodey’s missions were highly classified, too.  But this guy… He’d get Jarvis on it right away. 

Steve turned. “Thanks for coming to get me, Mr. Stark.  You must have been following me for a while.  I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” The words were perfectly polite.  They were perfectly neutral.  Careful.  Tony was sure if he poked, if he prodded, there was something just below the surface.  Guilt, maybe.  For what?

"No prob, Running Man.  Needed some fresh air anyway.”

 The look Steve flashed him was grateful, as much for the lack of questions as the lie.  Then he took the elevator to his room and shower.  As soon as he disappeared, Tony told Jarvis to find everything he could on Steve Rogers.


	4. Chapter 4

The phone rang.  And rang.  And rang.  Dammit, Tony knew he was going to regret teaching Pepper how to bypass voicemail.  She was supposed to use it for when she was trying to get in touch with _other people_ , not to use it on her boss.  Former boss.  Employee.  Damn.  Tony reached out blearily to find his phone.

“Whizsup?”

“Tony. Stane just called me.  He wants to know why the projections for the refugee facilities went up 20%.  He said something about hazard pay, although I couldn’t tell if he was talking about for him or for me.  Honestly, though.  Did you make changes to the plans?”

Last night replayed through his mind.  Finding the blueprints.  Realizing they’d been changed.  By someone who clearly knew what he was doing.  Seeing how wrecked that someone had been.  Telling Jarvis to let the man get some sleep after his shower. Scanning the new additions back into the program and sending them out. After all, they were better now.  Sure, he had some question about what kind of trees Rogers seemed to want to plant and why, but he figured the man probably had some good reasons for it given all the other changes he’d made.  Or, hell, maybe he just had a green thumb.  A little green space wouldn’t hurt.  It might even give the people some hope.  Remind them that things still grew.  There was still potential.  And, speaking of things growing—wait for it, that there was an inappropriate physical response, especially while on the phone with his assistant.  Boss.  Think about something else, anything else.

“Yes, Pep. Well, actually, my new you did.  But they looked like good changes, so I added them.”

There was a shocked silence on the other end of the line.  He could practically hear her thinking, _You took advice from the man you bought as eye candy?_  But all she said was, “Okay, Tony.  If you’re sure.”

“I am.  They were good ideas.”

She sighed.  “Alright.  I’ll handle Stane.  But you owe me.”

“Of course, Virginia, light of my life.   New shoes? An increase in shares? My first born child?”

There was that sigh again. But at least he could hear a smile.

“How about make sure you eat breakfast today.  And tell that nice boy he did a good job.” She paused. “He seems very sweet, Tony.” There was an implied, _don’t do anything stupid_.

“Will that be all, Miss Potts?”

“That’s all, Tony.” The line clicked at the same time as there was a knock on the door.

“Mr. Stark?” Steve called. “Um, I have coffee for you. If you want.  Jarvis said two sugars.”

Coffee.

He threw on some pants and opened the door.

Steve was carefully holding a steaming mug of coffee, but he almost dropped it when he saw Tony.

“Shit,” Tony said.  He’d forgotten about the arc reactor.  It was enough to scare off anyone.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, tipping the mug back to level.

Tony felt oddly vulnerable.  “Peachy, cupcake.” He just felt… bristly.  Who was this kid to judge? Still, he knew part of it was embarrassment.  He’d used to be a genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist.  Now he’d just have to settle for three out of four.  Nobody wanted a man who looked like he stepped out of a scifi movie.  Except for cosplayers.  And that wasn’t really his type.  He grabbed the mug, getting ready to shove Steve out of his bedroom.  Ironic, he thought, given that he’d normally have liked having life-size-Ken _in_ his bedroom. 

Steve reached out a hand, clearly without thinking about it.  He seemed to realize what he was doing as his fingers were just millimeters from Tony’s worst scarring.  His mouth worked, briefly, soundlessly, and he yanked his hand back. Yep.

Tony stepped back and shut the door in his face.

Well, it’s not like he had to worry about seducing beautiful people, or finding love.  Or even lust. Not for much longer, anyway.  He gave himself maybe two months.  Maybe.  And sure, he could find something to replace the palladium. It’s not like he wasn’t trying.  But there was a little voice inside that whispered that there wasn’t a replacement.  And that it was fair.  It was only what he deserved. 

Tony shook his head to clear it and downed the coffee.  _Thank you, Jarvis_ , he thought.  It was perfect. A small thing.  At least his AI took care of him. He set down the mug on the bedside table, stripped off his pants, and made his way toward the shower. On his way through the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of the dimming arc reactor in the mirror, sunlight filtering through the window to bounce harmlessly off the metal, providing almost equal brilliance to the false heart in his chest.  Maybe more like a month.

 

\--

 

Tony went straight to the workshop to get started.  If he only had a month left, he had a hell of a lot to do.  He picked up on a redesign of the Stark water filtration system.  It was too expensive to produce right now, couldn’t get wide enough distribution to be truly effective.  Not in the places where it was really needed.  It was already lightweight, already portable. But the combination of high cost and low flow led to it being used mostly by the wealthy hiker sort, the ones who wanted to filter water out of the streams of Yosemite and Yellowstone.  That wasn’t good enough. Tony wanted it to be truly useful.  He wanted mass production for places that didn’t have centralized filtration systems.  He could do better.  And he knew, _he knew_ it wouldn’t make up for the weapons, for the destruction the Stark name had caused.  But it was a small piece.  Maybe, when it was done, he would feel some of that redemption.

One of the bots wheeled over to him and crashed a plate of cut fruit and mini waffles into Tony’s left thigh.  He picked it up absently and set it on the table.  “Good boy, Butterfingers,” he said, patting him and biting into a nutella and strawberry waffle. Wait a second. “Jarvis, where did this come from?” he asked, his mouth full.

“Captain Rogers left it for you when you were in the shower, Sir.”

Huh. “How did he get in?”

“Miss Potts gave him an access code, Sir.”

Double huh.  He thought Pepper had said picking up stray boys was a bad idea.  Walking sexual harassment lawsuit.  Something like that.

Well.  If Rogers had changed her mind… It didn’t even matter, anyway.  Still.  What kind of a man goes from being disgusted by Tony’s scars to bringing him waffles at work? Maybe it was a guilty conscience. Pity. Maybe he just really wanted to pay for that Chihuly. He realized, halfway through, that he’d eaten a fairly good breakfast.  Well, Pepper would be happy.  And he liked that she’d be happy.  She deserved it, after all.  Put up with him for years. He sighed.  She’d be well set when he was gone.  Control of SI rested with her, after all.  His shares would go to her, barring any paternity suits or other family popping out of the woodwork, and then she’d have majority control of everything, besides being CEO. 

“Where is he now, Jarvis?”

“He exited the premises after depositing breakfast, sir.”

Tony wasn’t sure he’d be back. But it wasn’t like he really needed another PA for much longer, anyway. Stop being maudlin, he told himself, and get back to work.  

He just about had it, he was pretty sure.  How had he not seen this solution before? Expanding the filter, widening it, increasing pressure, he could make the rate of flow more than quadruple.  That would make it usable.  Rate of flow should be nearly 3L/min instead of the previous .5L. The filter could pop out and be replaced, instead of replacing the whole unit.  Using UV sterilization that worked through a hand pump got rid of one of the more expensive filtering agents.  Cheap, easy to replace. Probably an ironic metaphor in there somewhere.

He was just about to tell Jarvis to run a prototype when his AI announced that Steve Rogers was asking for entrance.

He looked up, surprised.  Asking entrance? Pepper already gave him a code.  “What’ve you collected on the guy, Jarvis? Almost done?”

“Almost, Sir.  I’m currently decrypting one rather stubborn piece of data.  As of now, nothing alarming. Covert but sanctioned missions throughout his tours, commendations for leadership. The last file seems to be protected with a digital key of some sort, but I am attempting to ascertain how to access it.”

“Alright, J.  Let the kid in.” He turned around to see Rogers push the door open, closing it behind him.  He hovered right in front of it, clearly unsure of himself.  It made the hackles rise on Tony’s neck.  He couldn’t be that disturbed by a little scarring, could he? He was in the army, for Christ’s sake.

“Spit it out, Rogers.”

Steve took a deep breath.  “There’s lunch upstairs, Mr. Stark.  I.  I made burgers.”

Tony was surprised to find he was hungry.  Well, then.  “Alright, J.  Run a prototype.  Clean  water. Achievable in our time.  And dad wanted to make a flying car.”  He turned to Steve.  “Lead on.”

He followed Steve up the stairs, which gave him the perfect opportunity to stare at that ass.  Jesus.  It was no wonder if the guy could run a 6 minute mile for a whole marathon.  Stamina, too.  Not that Tony was thinking, well, anything.

The table was set with perfect burgers.  Tomato slices, white onion, pickles.  Butter lettuce, not iceberg.  And a heap of crisp, salty oven fries. 

“That is just crying out for a beer,” Tony remarked, offhand. 

Steve was taking glasses out of the fridge, frosty and cold.  But definitely not beer. “I made raspberry lemonade.” His lashes swept down, shadowing his eyes. 

There were barely any dots to connect, barely any data at all, but let it never be said Tony was not a genius. “Pepper told you.”

Steve blushed again, still hiding his gaze behind those ridiculous blond eyelashes.  “No.”

“You are, hands down, the worst liar I’ve ever met,” Tony observed, without any real heat behind it.  It didn’t actually bother him.  It made sense.  Pepper had to hand down her knowledge to the next her, after all. Or, the next him? Her next him? Ugh.

“I’m not lying, Mr. Stark,” Steve said, suddenly looking directly at him, blue gaze fully focused on Tony. That was breathtaking. 

“Let’s uh, let’s just go with Tony, shall we? Since you’ve seen me almost naked and broken into my workshop already.”

Steve blushed more.  “Look, I’m sorry,” he began.

“No worries, I know, Pep told you. She already owns me, it’s fine.”

“No, Mr. S—Tony.  She really didn’t.  You can trust her.  I.  I asked Jarvis.  I just noticed, and then, so.” He noticed? He’d been here like six hours.  How had he noticed anything?  “And she only gave me the code so I could help.  I swear.  She cares about you.  And.  I--I’m just trying to help.  But I get it if you. Because I. Look, I understand. So, I’ll find a new way to pay you back.”

Tony was lost.  What was he on about? “Wait, you get it if I what?”

“If you want me gone.”

“Because of the drinking thing?”

Steve couldn’t look at him anymore.  “Because of the blueprints. I know I overstepped.  I’m really sorry. I am. I didn’t mean to, and I just—“

“Because of the blueprints.  Rogers.  Steve.  Really?”

“I’m already packed.  I really do understand. I wouldn’t lie to anyone, I wouldn’t tell anyone anything at all.  It was my fault.”

“Unpack.  Now.  Right after lunch.  The blueprints—those were good. You made them better. I already sent them to the production team.  You were totally right about the changes, although I’m not sure why you needed the greenhouse.  I mean, food gets shipped in, too. But I really should have thought about the extra school reinforcement. But no.  You, you stay.  I don’t release you.  You’re working for me. But what’s with the trees?”

Steve looked up, haloed by the light illuminating the kitchen.  Reprieve.  Relief.  “Well, when they ship food, they ship staples.  Dry goods.  Grains.  Protein. Sometimes they ship vitamins.  But those two areas are already good for growing sour oranges, for onions.  Those will help with the malnutrition that can happen, even if the people are being fed. But even more than that, those components are indigenous to their diets.  That way, they can feel like home.  Even if they don’t really have one anymore.” He dropped his eyes to his plate.  “Even if there’s no home to go back to. They can start a new one, and it will feel familiar.” He paused. “It might be stupid. Why waste water on a greenhouse, right? But, if it can feel more like home…”

Tony was watching him closely.  He hoped J had gotten those files open.  He needed to know more.  “Waste of water, huh? Well, I will have you know, I just finished working on a prototype to filter almost a gallon a minute.  The water won’t be a problem.  And, you’re right.” That got Steve to look at him again.  “That was well done, Steve. Looks like you’ve definitely got a brain to match those muscles.”

Steve’s lips twisted. That was not a smile.  Hm.  Well, Tony had long practice at being more than what he appeared.  They ate in mostly silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was actually somewhat comfortable.  Steve wasn’t sure what it said about it him that this was comfortable.  But it was. Even when Tony teased him about the salt and pepper dip he made for his fries.  He thought Mr. Stark might just have been trying to put him at ease, since he had a faint, pleased smile when Steve grudgingly laughed. 

When Tony finished off the last of his fries, Steve slid a small heavy jar over to him. His eyes were on the little glass jar, avoiding Tony’s gaze, uncertain of his gift’s welcome.

“Bucky uses that, on his arm.  Says it helps. With the pain, and the inflammation.” He looked up, an odd expression on his face, but it wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t disgusted. “It isn’t poisoned,” he said, with a tiny grin. 

Tony wasn’t sure how to deal.  “Thanks, Rogers.” His voice didn’t waver, but it was a close thing.

Steve just smiled, a real smile—and that was luminescent, the warm benevolence of a kind sun.  Tony didn’t think he’d ever seen anything quite that astoundingly lovely before, and it was addictive. He wanted to keep making it happen, make it happen for him, make Steve smile.  He needed it. 

“Well,” Steve began, “I guess I should clean up in here.  Do you have a list for me to do today?”

Tony thought fast.  What would he have had Pepper do? Most of the assistant activities were handled by Jarvis, anyway, or they had been since she took off.  “Just get acquainted with SI.  Do some reading.  Jarvis can get it for you.  I want you to understand the whole company.  I might loan you out to help our CFO for a bit, if you feel up to it. Also, a friend of mine might come by this afternoon, if he can get time off.  Rhodes.  He’s Air Force,” Tony added at the last minute.

Steve smiled.  No—he smirked! And just as quickly the expression was gone.

“Something against the Air Force, Rogers?”

“Not at all, Mr. Stark.  It’s always good to know someone’s looking after the recliners and champagne,” Steve replied, deadpan. 

Tony grinned. For now, he grabbed the little jar off the table and went back down to the workshop.  He opened it.  It smelled lightly fragrant, but floral. Sunflowers, maybe. Or cornflowers.  He stripped his shirt and rubbed a tiny fingertip of it into his scarring.  He could picture Steve’s fingers doing it instead, smoothing the salve onto his chest, wide fingertips massaging his skin.  He swallowed.  When had he paid attention to Steve’s fingers? But now he knew he could picture those hands, deft and sure, broad, long fingers.  His blood was suddenly leaving his brain and heading lower.  He twisted the lid back on the jar, wiping his fingers on a towel.  His chest did feel better.  The ache reduced and the inflammation was slightly less red and puffy, even if it wouldn’t do anything for his arc reactor problem. Still, he felt like he could take a deep breath for the first time since Afghanistan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no beta, so all mistakes are definitely and completely mine.  
> Feel free to leave comments. You know. :D  
> Also, author does not know technicalities of anything really.


	5. Chapter 5

Tony was just wrapping up a modification to Butterfingers’s retrieval code when Rhodey came in through the garage elevator, bypassing the entry system entirely.  He looked exhausted, still in uniform and carrying a thin sheaf of papers.

“Tones, what’ve you got yourself into this time, man?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Rhodey! You are a sight for sore eyes. No really, I mean it.  Actually, you look like shit.”

“Back at you, man! Did you even eat anything today? Besides a smoothie?”

Tony looked mock-affronted.  “I will have you know that I ate a burger.  With cheese.  And fries. Baked, but still, fries.  Can we call them fries if they’re baked? Doesn’t matter.  Pull up a chair, take a load off.  Happy called you?”

Rhodey spun around a chair and draped himself over the back. “Yeah, man. Something about kidnapping a blonde giant? Or a giant kidnapper? I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I got what he meant.  I got that file he asked for, though.  Not a lot in it or anything. Not even a discharge photo. And I requisitioned everything. Hey, botface.  You been taking care of my boy?” Dum-E rolled over inquisitively.

“He tried to poison me, twice.  Just this week. Didn’t you? You did. You know you did.  One more time and I’m bringing you down to PS 24.  Those middle schoolers will love you,” Tony threatened, fondly, “and they’re sticky. Your gears won’t last a week.”

“So Tones, what possessed you to kidnap a giant, huh?” Rhodes asked.  Behind him, Steve came down the stairs, carrying what looked like a pitcher of that lemonade. Rhodey tracked Tony’s eyes, turning around to see what had caught his attention. “Oh, nevermind.  I know exactly what possessed you. Tall, blonde, and built, huh?”

The door popped open. Steve put the tray down immediately, snapping to attention and saluting Colonel Rhodes.  To Tony’s astonishment, Rhodey saluted right back. 

“Don’t you outrank him by like a billion levels?” Tony asked, curious.

“Technically, but he—“ Rhodes  started.

“Thank you, Sir, that was awfully polite of you,” Steve jumped in, talking over him and looking at Rhodes intently.  That was sort of uncharacteristically disrespectful, Tony thought.  “Tony, Ms. Potts said you’d probably be going out for dinner, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have something to drink after the colonel’s hearings on the Hill.”

“Thanks, Rogers,” Tony said, mildly. He wouldn’t drop the question, but he’d just ask Rhodey about it afterward. “This is Jim Rhodes.  Rhodey, this is Steve Rogers.”

Rhodey reached out to shake his hands, something a bit like awe in his eyes, although a cynical glint gave away that he knew exactly why Tony was so interested.

“Well.  I have some things to finish up.  Tony.  Sir.” Steve didn’t exactly hurry on his way out, but he wasn’t taking his time, either. He disappeared rather quickly up the stairs.

“Suddenly, I get it.  You brought home a trophy pool boy, and he’s a Medal of Honor recipient.  Only you, Tones.  This only happens to you. Do you even know if he swings that way?” Rhodey poured two glasses and handed one to Tony.

“Medal of Honor? What for?” Tony conveniently didn’t answer the last question.

“Valorous conduct.  Weren’t a lot of details, but from what I could put together, he spent a lot of his time in Afghanistan running around and rescuing people.  He led a small joint command—international forces, did a lot of good. Ended up specializing in rescuing hostages.  His whole team got targets basically painted on their backs, they were so good. It all ended when his buddy got hit on a patrol Rogers was leading.  Most of them got out okay, but he lost a few men, and his sniper lost an arm. Rogers ended up doing some field medical on him and carrying him and a local nearly five clicks to safety.” Rhodes paused. “Looked a little like a setup, maybe. Or bad intel.  Not Rogers’s fault.  Not that _that_ means anything.” Rhodes knew how exacting command could be, how much guilt a man could carry when one of his own died.

Rhodey trailed off.  Tony looked over, questioning.

“It was StarkTech,” Rhodey added gently.

Of course it was. Of course. That was just perfect.  Barnes’s animosity made a lot of sense. Not Tony’s fault, not in the direct way, anyway. 

And yet. 

If he’d just been better. If he’d kept a closer eye on the business end of SI instead of sleeping his way through the calendar and drinking his way through the cabinet… Yeah, sure, not his fault. _Keep telling yourself that, slugger_ , he admonished himself bitterly.  _No wonder he thinks you’re the Merchant of Death. You literally blew the arm off his bff._

Tony shoved the thought away.  He’d have plenty of time for that later. Rhodes was always there for him, and he needed help on the Hill.  He grabbed the keys to the Bugatti.

Over dinner, Tony helped Rhodey walk the line of what he could tell the senate committee without giving away any brand secrets. He was focused, but Rhodey was his oldest friend.

“So you wanna talk about your boy?”

Tony couldn’t deny it. He did. Who was this guy? “You don’t understand.  I mean, at first, yeah, he’s gorgeous, right? But he’s smart, too.  He made some changes to some of my plans, and they were good! I told Obie to—“

“You let someone else change your plans?” Rhodes asked, visibly shocked.

“Yeah, well, he was right!” Tony shot back. Rhodey grabbed his chest, faking a heart attack. Tony threw his napkin at him.  “Shut it.  I can be right, and he can also be right. We can both be right.”

“Okay, man,” Rhodes said placatingly, hands up in mock-surrender. “So, he’s smart and pretty, huh? He’s also, according to Happy, friends with a criminal.”

“That’s his sniper-bff.  Barnes.  He hates me, but, as you say, with good reason. He was breaking in.  I dunno what their thing is. Wouldn’t tell me.  He was knee deep in SI files.”

Rhodey cocked his head to the side, for a second, thinking.  “There was an SI code in his file.  Rogers, I mean.  I obviously don’t know what it is.  But it looks kinda like a QR or something.”

Tony squinted at the file Rhodey produced.  “I don’t recognize that, but it also doesn’t look like my tenure.  That’s more Howard’s design, but… This little squiggly thing… Can I have this?”

“Sure, Tones.  Just be careful, will you?”

“I am,” Tony replied, absently, already looking through the sparse file, deep in concentration.

“Uh huh,” Rhodey agreed dubiously, catching the waitress’s eye and signaling for their check.  “Just take care of yourself.  Look, if Rogers is really that smart, have him help Stane out with the research into how those weapons got away from you, yeah? You gotta get some sleep.  You’re looking sort of worn down. You can’t do everything on your own.”

Tony paused.  “That’s a good idea.  He’s already helped out with SI France.”  Rhodey’s eyebrows shot up comically high, making Tony snort.  “I’ll have him start working on it tomorrow.  Can’t hurt, right?”

“Yeah, and then pretty boy will see you didn’t sell the weapon that hit his buddy.  Win-win.”

Fuck Rhodey for being so observant, Tony thought without malice. Still, he wasn’t wrong.

Tony slipped his heavy card down onto the bill, winking at the waitress when she picked it up.  “Miss, can you get us an extra set of enchiladas with the works, and a salad to go? Thanks.” He didn’t think Steve had made dinner. He sent a quick text to let him know he’d picked something up for him.

Rhodey was grinning, like a dork.  “You’re getting enchiladas with the whole enchilada?” he asked. 

Tony shook his head, mockingly.  “You’re the worst.  I can’t take you anywhere.  Dad jokes, Rhodey.  You’re not even forty yet. And you don't have kids! Where did you even pick that up?”

“I’m the best, Tones, and you know it,” Rhodey said, chuckling under his breath. 

Tony buried his face in Steve’s file, ignoring the idiot.  Still, when Rhodes was in DC, Tony missed him sharply. 

Rhodey was still grinning when the waitress came back with the to-go bag.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not one-sided!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, upped the rating to M?

Just over two weeks later, Steve had made some progress tracking the weapons deals.  He was pretty sure, now, that he’d been an idiot.  After all, what kind of businessman sells weapons to the enemy? One that didn’t mind bad press and a dying business.  And while Stark—Tony—had all kinds of bad press, he seemed to really care. About his company. About the world.  About Steve, actually.  And, given all the questions he’d been asking about Bucky and the waitlisting on his prosthetic procedure, maybe him too.  There was no way that Tony sold weapons to terrorists. There was just no way.  The man was all bluster, squishy on the inside, and wracked with enough guilt to give Steve a run for his money.  Although, only one of them was particularly into running, and the other one had all the money. 

He had access to everything. Literally. Tony’d given him access to every file in SI, no limits. He’d traced some of the money to offshore accounts, putting his rusty Farsi and French to good use. Apparently his time in the army gave him some marketable skills after all. The more he used his language skills to parse through the documents he’d found, the more they returned to him. 

He hadn’t worked with Mr. Stane, not since that initial meeting.  Stane made him uncomfortable. No real reason.  And he didn’t want to be rude, especially since he’d just met the man and Tony seemed to trust him so much.  But there was something he didn’t like about him.  Something about the overly friendly, smugly jovial tone that Stane used. It made Steve feel small, again.

He brushed the feeling away. He was being irrational.  Tony trusted Stane, so Steve should, too. He pushed away from the computer and got ready for bed.  He’d been tracking one transaction through servers in Portugal, Dubai, Singapore, Bolivia, Slovenia, and Cambodia, finally thinking he would get somewhere with the data when it ended in a bank in Monaco.  Again. He’d try again tomorrow morning.  It was so frustrating being so close, and yet not being able to do what was necessary.  He was sure Tony wasn’t behind the weapons sales.  He had to find the proof.  He’d been working for the man most of the month, and he could see Tony was a good person.  Generous and brilliant.  He cared about everything.  Why couldn’t Steve just help him out?

This morning, Pepper had forwarded him a story that was published overnight, alleging that Tony Stark had sold weapons to three Russian supermodels when he had a sordid orgy with them that night.  It was obvious garbage.  Not that Tony couldn’t get a supermodel to come home with him, if he wanted—the more Steve was around him, the more he couldn’t help notice how attractive and charismatic Tony was—but he’d been working all night, finally dropping onto a couch in his workshop, fluffy hair a mess, around 3am.  In fact, Tony hadn’t spent a night out, or brought anyone home, since Steve had started working there. Steve knew, because he’d started waking up to check on Tony every hour.  It was routine, now.  It left him a little tired, but he couldn’t help it.  If he went to sleep before Tony, he’d try to sleep through the night, but he’d wake up on the hour, unable to get back to sleep until he checked on him.  It was a holdover from the army, he knew, totally irrational.  But that impulse to make sure that his people were still there was ingrained habit, now.  The only difference was that now, apparently, Tony was one of his people.  He’d always been a mother hen.  Bucky’d teased him about it mercilessly, calling the Commandos “Steve’s ducklings.”  But he couldn’t help it.  He couldn’t allow himself to lose someone.

Tonight, Tony’d gone to bed at a reasonable hour, in preparation for a press conference he had to have tomorrow morning.  He didn’t look great, either.  Steve kept making his meals healthy, and Tony insisted he wasn’t sick. But he looked tired. Still, he was in bed now, so Steve dropped off easily.

He slept uneasily, dreams haunting him, claiming him.  It was always that same damn mission.  How had it gone so bad? In his dreams, the faces of his men haunted him. Bucky blamed him, angrily. He dropped Bucky, over and over again. The concussions from the explosion ripped through his body, he could feel the impact of hitting the ground, his vision a wreck of crimson and silver, minute grains of sand scoring into his eyelids, rasping at his face, the hot metallic smell of Bucky’s blood on his hands, the way it seeped into the sand, dragging his life beneath the dust, disappearing on contact. The tourniquet cutting into Steve’s own hands as he tied it around the stump of his best friend’s arm, praying that he’d survive long enough to be pissed about it. The limp drag of Bucky’s body, the civilian child wailing on Steve’s shoulder. His uniform had been soaked in blood—sweat, too, and tears—but the blood left streaks down his chest, painting him, proclaiming his guilt.

He broke free suddenly, sitting straight up in bed, perfectly still, trying to control his nightmares through sheer force of will. 

Jarvis spoke quietly. “Would you like me to call Mr. Stark, Captain?”

Steve couldn’t reply.  His whole body was rigid, fighting to contain the feeling of his entire world flying to shards, to hold all the broken pieces together, inside.

“Sir?” Jarvis prompted gently.

Steve forced himself to reply. “No,” he gritted out.  “Thank you,” he added after a moment.

“As you wish, Captain.  I will take the liberty of turning on _Downton Abbey_ , as Sir generally finds it quite soothing.”

As the patter of British banter droned on quietly in the background, Steve gradually relaxed.  He missed Bucky fiercely.  It was coming up on a year since the incident.  Steve’d been assigned to a few VA doctors.  He hadn’t been able to say much, and they were overbusy.  They all said it would get better with time. He’d thanked them, and canceled any further sessions.  He appreciated their time, but he wasn’t even injured, and he knew from experience that men and women like Bucky needed those services. Needed them more than Steve. Deserved them. More than he did.  He’d walked them into the ambush. And his men paid for his actions. 

He just had to wait, then.  He willed himself to relax further, the vestiges of the nightmares dropping away softly, becoming more dream than reality.  A few minutes later, exhaustion hit him, heavy and inexorable. All the adrenaline dissipated, leaving him shivering, goosebumps forming all over his arms and exposed torso.  He was enormously thirsty, but the idea of dragging himself to the bathroom to get a glass of water was overwhelming.  It was okay, though.  He’d be careful to drink extra water tomorrow.

A soft knock sounded at his door, and then it opened without waiting for a response.

“I know, I know. You’d think a man like me would have room service, right? I almost put on the French maid outfit, but I figured it was overkill,” Tony said breezily as he entered the room. He was carrying a glass of water and a plate with a few crackers, his pajamas masking the glowing metal Steve knew resided in his chest.  Steve’s body reacted wildly to the suggestion of Tony wearing a maid’s outfit.  Tony nearly naked, bare ass peeking out from under a ruffled skirt, apron lifting to accommodate his rising cock. He shifted, pulling the blankets over himself discreetly.  He was going to chalk this one up to the dump of hormones from the nightmare and the surprise visit. Of course Tony was sexy—mouthy, intelligent brunettes were sort of his type, after all, not that he’d had a lot of time for dating in the army. But Tony was also his boss.  Who was in his room.  With snacks. Because, dammit.  Because of Steve’s inability to handle his own shit.  The night before a big press conference.  Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” he began to say.

“Nope, no apologies.  No thanks.  I was just making my rounds, realized I hadn’t done the proper host thing of putting champagne and fruit baskets in the rooms of all my guests, figured I’d make up for it with, well, water and ritz.  But, you know, ritz! They’re ritzy! Only the best for oh holy god, Rhodey’s wearing off on me. This is the end, I’ll have you know.  The end.” Tony strolled casually over to Steve’s bed and handed him the water and looked at him expectantly.  Steve drained the entire glass. “Now, I normally would say no crumbs in the bed, but it’s a special occasion.  You’ve been working for me for three weeks—twenty-one whole days!.  That’s the longest I’ve ever had a PA, besides Pepper. We should celebrate! This is only the beginning.  Tomorrow, after the thing, we’ll go do something fun.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched.  “I don’t think you’re supposed to celebrate your PA sticking around for a couple weeks, Tony.  I think you’re supposed to tell the help to get back to work.” Tony’s easy prattle helped ground him.

“Who says it’s for you? It’s for me.  I’ve finally found one that lasts.  That’s big.  That’s like, mini golf big.  Dancing big.  Piñata big.” He shoved a cracker in his mouth, chewing for a moment.  “So what do you think, Rogers? Dancing? Mini golf?”

“I’ve never played mini golf,” Steve admitted, trying to avoid the thought of dancing with Tony—pressing against him, feeling the rough scrape of his goatee against his cheek, being able to splay his hands over the muscles of Tony’s back, feeling them flex and shiver—who’d sat down on the bed to place the crackers within reach. 

Tony looked aghast.  “Never? Blasphemy! Tomorrow. After the thing. It’s a date. I mean, it’s a thing. Date is a term that people use to describe things people do.  Tomorrow is the date. Of the thing.  Look, you need to get to sleep, and so do I, so, um, enjoy the crackers,” Tony babbled, trying desperately to pour enough words on the fire to put it out.  He paused at the door, hand on the knob, and didn’t turn around. “You know, we all have demons.  You’ve seen mine.  So.  Just. I get it.  A little.” He opened the door.

“Tony?” Steve called, quiet. Tony looked over his shoulder and Steve noticed again how tired he looked.  How worn down. “Am I really the second longest running PA you’ve ever had?”

Tony gave what tried to be a smile.  “Sleep tight, Steve.” He shut the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure this is still M appropriate?  
> Also, plot is about to happen soonish. I promise.

The next morning, Steve had coffee ready for Tony at his door, like normal.  Steve liked working for Tony.  He helped. He had little routines, orderly, like this one. Tony was a little sluggish, not surprising for the night he’d had.  He forgot to pull on his pajama top, and just threw on a robe to answer the door.  It fell open when he grabbed for his coffee. 

“Tony, is that a little less shiny than it was last time I saw it?” Steve asked, his eyebrows coming together in a furrow. “Is it that salve I gave you?”

Fuck.  Rogers was just a little too observant for his own good.  But Tony knew that.  After all, Steve figured out Tony’s drive to stay sober after like a day.  

“It’s fine, Steve.  Just, you know, when I’m a little tired, it gets a little tired,” Tony said, offhand. He saw Steve open his mouth to ask another question, so he struck close to home. “After all, I didn’t get much sleep last night since I was playing nurse.”

Steve was both humiliated and turned on, more images of Tony flooding his mind, unbidden, short white vinyl skirt hiding nothing.  Humiliation won quickly though, and he flushed, looking at the floor.  

Ugh. The man could easily pass for a football player, but he still managed to look like a kicked puppy, small and aware of his transgressions. 

Tony had known what he was doing, but still.  “Hey, it was no big thing.  We’re still on for minigolf, right?”

Steve looked up, regret clearly still in his gaze.  “Of course. If you really want to. But you look a little run down.  Could you maybe skip the conference? Have Pepper do it, as CEO?”

“I have to. It’s a thing. Pepper used to do a lot of it. I used to be hard—harder—to handle, you know? And I owe it to her.  Besides, they’re going to have questions about R&D, and about those weapons transactions, and she shouldn’t be getting her hands dirty in all that. It’s my job.”

Steve trained an evaluative eye on Tony, judging him, scrutinizing.  The intensity was staggering.  Tony looked away. 

“Okay, Tony,” he said, mildly. “Breakfast in about twenty.”

In the mornings, Steve tended just to throw on sweats and a t-shirt he’d clearly bought for someone half his size.  Or someone had misinformed him regarding how t-shirts were supposed to fit, and when Tony found that person he was going to buy them a Bentley. Walking in on Steve last night had been difficult for Tony, trying to decide whether the invasion of privacy was worth the comfort, or vice versa.  Eventually, he’d figured he’d do more good than harm.  He hadn’t been prepared for Steve in all his shirtless glory.  It wasn’t appropriate to ogle at the time, but Tony couldn’t help but notice the ridges defining Steve’s stomach, the smooth plush of his chest. This morning, as Steve walked away, cotton softly clinging to his perfect form, Tony gave up trying to fight it.  He had few enough mornings left, and as long as his equipment still functioned, he was going to use it. Steve wouldn’t mind. Or, he wouldn’t know, anyway. Same difference. He felt a slight pang of guilt, but brushed it aside.

Stepping into the shower, Tony imagined Steve’s hands running over his torso, his face, maybe slightly shy, blushing when he let Tony lean in, kiss him, and take him in hand. In his mind, Steve’s soft lips parted easily, allowing Tony to explore his mouth, moaning when Tony’s tongue swept in, licking and sucking. Tony gasped as he slid into his fist, fully hard and slightly breathless under the warm water. The thought of Steve, waiting in anticipation was enough to put him on the edge. He pictured Steve’s perfect pink mouth, stretched around his cock, tight and hot, tongue working the ridge on the underside, blue eyes holding his, approving him, and lost control embarrassingly quickly, shivering as he came, striping the marble in white. He basked in the afterglow for a brief moment, then cleaned himself up, rinsing the evidence of his gauche behavior down the drain.  In the aftermath, he was bereft, cold despite the hot water, now more aware of how much he wanted Steve, thrown into relief by his vivid imagination. 

\--

Tony took questions from everyone with aplomb, deftly maneuvering his way through the more aggressive reporters.

“Christine Everhart, Mr. Stark. What do you say to rumors that you sold weapons to the Russians at an orgy with supermodels and are holding the money in Dubai?” she asked, smiling as if she’d caught him.

Tony sighed internally, and looked briefly at Steve, standing next to Pepper at the side of the room. They made a lovely couple, tall, fair, athletic.  He brought himself back to the question. “Actually, I’m not in the market for supermodels, Russian or otherwise. And no, I, and SI, would never sell weapons to enemy combatants.  As you know,” he glanced toward Steve again, apologetic, “I owe a great deal to our men and women in the service, and I would never betray their trust. As for Dubai,” he hesitated slightly, checking his phone almost imperceptibly, “no. We’re trying to track the money from the sales, transactions made without the company’s knowledge or mine, and we think that money trail ends in Libya. We’re working with our teams to liaise with the Libyan government.”

“He’s good,” Steve said, under his breath to Pepper. He’d been the one to send Tony the text to mislead the reporters about the money trail—he didn’t want anyone thinking they might have gotten close—and even he could barely tell that Tony was getting his cue from somewhere else.

She didn’t turn to look at him, but he could feel her approval and agreement.  “He’s trained in it since practically birth. He’s had to do this since he was small—the press still sees him as he was when he was young: troubled and vulnerable.” Her voice hardened, and he knew the tone wasn’t for him; he was also aware he’d been guilty of misreading Tony, too.

Steve scrutinized Tony, watching the offhand way he dealt with the reporters, seeing him tire of the endless nonsense, the vultures. His phone buzzed. He opened the screen. _Ask Pep if I’m done_. _Please_. The questions were getting increasingly vicious, asking about former bad habits from before Afghanistan, insinuating Tony was lying, cheating, and generally scum. A quick evaluation of the crowd told him they were sharks, scenting blood, pack mentality full swing. Time to pull back.

He showed her the text, and she gave a quick nod.  He walked toward the podium with a bottle of water for Tony, ready to usher him away, when Christine Everhart jumped in with one more question. “Mr. Stark! I have a source that says you were partying with Junior Manfredi last night at his high stakes club in LA. Any comment?”

Steve had had enough.  “Mr. Stark was not out partying with mobsters, Miss.  He was home, working on renewable energy,” he said, sharply, “and certainly not in _Los Angeles._ This conference is over.”

The reporter turned a predatory eye on him, but Steve was clearly not playing ball.

Tony looked at him, amusement and relief clear on his face. Steve stalked out of the conference behind him, back straight, looking for all the world ex-military trying hard not to look ex-military.  Tony waited until they’d gotten in the car and Happy had closed the doors behind them to ask, “Something against LA, Steve?”

“Nope.”

“Right.  Nothing to do with those baseball games we both know you’re watching?”

Steve’s mouth thinned. “Nope.”

Tony laughed openly, subsiding when he saw Steve’s stern glance.  “Thanks for the rescue, though.  Everhart makes it difficult to stay calm.”

Steve snorted.  Then, begrudgingly, he added, “She’s a big favorite with a lot of the guys overseas. They think she’s real pretty.”

“Well, she was eyeing you like you were dinner.  Definitely didn’t have a story in mind when she was looking at you,” Tony felt obligated to say. Hard to blame her, really.

“Why would she want to interview me?” Steve asked, completely serious.

“I don’t know if interview is the right term, unless interview is what all the kids are calling doing the dirty these days.”

Steve flushed. “I’m certain that’s not what she would have wanted,” he said. “She probably just wanted to get a story on you.”

“Steve. Seriously. Have you seen you?” Modesty was nice and all, but Tony didn’t know exactly what to make of just how self-effacing Steve was being. He seemed almost embarrassed. Was he maybe just always being chased for his looks? If so, they were missing out on the rest of him. “I bet you were drowning in girlfriends.  Or boyfriends. I mean, whatever, who am I to judge, right? But you must have had your pick.”

Steve just grimaced.  Well. That was odd, even if it wasn’t any of Tony’s business. Steve pulled out his phone and started playing with it in a clumsy attempt to change the subject. “Who’s #3?” Steve asked, looking at his quick contacts.

“Barnes,” Tony replied.

“Really?” Steve asked, genuinely surprised.

“Of course. Pepper always takes care of our people.” Tony slid on his sunglasses.

Steve barely noticed. He sent a quick text to Bucky, telling him that things were okay. That old phone of his had finally given up the ghost and he didn’t want Bucky to worry. He was surprised when he got back a message almost immediately.

_He was just here. Slimy bastard looks happy. This can’t be good._

Steve’s pulse took off.  “Shit.”

“What’s up?”

Steve looked up quickly, chastised. If Tony hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed the lie. “I forgot Natasha’s birthday. Not a big deal. We’ve been putting together a book from her old unit.  Bucky gave it to her without me.” He made a face.  Not a lie.  Not exactly. Tony would have put money on at least half of that all being true. He could just have Jarvis pull up the texts later.  If he needed. Not that he would. Probably. But if Steve was in trouble…

Speaking of trouble. His phone buzzed with a reminder from Pepper.  The Coulson charity gala (“The Scientific World is a Magical Place” was their motto—really) was tomorrow night.  Again. Was it that time of year already? Pepper was supposed to be there as his PA.  Well, looks like everyone’s favorite linebacker-impressionist would need to be there.  In a tux. No night like tomorrow night to be a penguin. He broke the bad news to Steve even as he phoned the tailor, giving Happy directions to take them to the nearest mini golf park. They deserved a break after the press conference.

“You sure this is how you want to spend your day, Tony?” Steve asked.

Tony pretended to be hurt.  “Steve.  You don’t understand.  You’ve never felt the joy of mini golf before.  There are little tiny hobbit-size golf clubs, and windmills, and a giant clown that’s scary as fuckall.  Besides, it’s a rite of passage, I’m pretty sure.  Everybody has to go mini golfing.  I mean, you’re a little bit of a late bloomer.  Most of us do this in middle school.  High school maybe.  Everyone has at least a couple mini golf dates.” Tony shuddered, remembering the last mini golf date he’d been on, where he’d been pushed into the duck pond.  He’d probably been fourteen.  He’d definitely deserved it. It was awful.  On the other hand, maybe Steve had a point.  Why mini golf again? “You’ve really never been? Not even on a middle school date?”

Steve shook his head.  “I didn’t get out a lot in middle school. I was pretty sick a lot.”

“With what?” Tony asked.

“You name it.  Really. I was sick all the time.”

Tony tried to imagine Steve as a middle schooler.  He just came up with an unbearably cute image of a kid with fluffy blond hair, sticking up all over like a duck, big blue eyes, and probably more of that cocky smirk that sometimes showed up. He wished he could have seen it.

“Well, high school then. It’s quintessentially high school anyway.  Once you can drive, and then you can pretend to play mini golf and really just mess around in the back seat with your date.”

Steve shook his head again. “Definitely not. I didn’t really date much in high school.”

Tony stared.  “Were you like part of a super secret cult or something? Who doesn’t want to date you?”

Steve was doing that evasive blushing thing again.  “Just think how easy it’s going to be to kick my ass,” he said, side stepping the issue.  So clearly, he had definitely been in a secret, hotness-avoiding, intelligence-shaming, game-abjuring cult.  Nobody else in their right mind was going to leave a guy like Steve home on a Saturday—hell, on any night.  He was smart, and kind, and hotter than hell.  What kind of idiots didn’t want that?

An hour later, Tony had lost by over twenty points. Even though Steve had to awkwardly bend over to use the tiny golf club. Tony blamed losing his ball once to the duck pond to some high-school-date related PTSD, and maybe two more points for ogling Steve instead of concentrating, but still, Steve had handed him his ass.  The fucker was leading by a dozen points when he looked at #18 (which went between the rotating blades of the windmill, through the scary clown’s mouth—opening and closing like a gasping fish, around three corners, and over a timed drawbridge), lined up the shot cleanly and precisely, and sunk a hole in one.  It was a par-9.

“That was fun, Tony, thanks,” Steve remarked afterward. “It’s like chess, in a way; you can think through the whole board.”

“You’re a ringer!” Tony accused. “You part of a league on Sundays or something? Instead of bowling, you and your friends play this course?”

Steve laughed. The sound was brilliant, molten sunshine. “No, I promise.  Actually…”

“Aha!” Tony said.  “So you have been here before!”

Steve looked a bit regretful. “No.  I did have one date. We were supposed to come here, play a round. Never made it.”

“What happened?” Tony asked, curious. There was no way someone had stood Steve up.

“I… I didn’t make it.  I had a doctor’s appointment suddenly, sort of an experimental treatment.” His eyes were searching Tony’s, looking for something, seemingly. Whatever it was, Tony didn’t know what to give him, although he would have if he could. He’d probably give anything, at this point.

Intriguing.  Experimental? “What for?”

“Well, like I said, I’d been sick a lot.”

“And you never made it back?”

Steve picked up his golf ball and tossed it lightly into the return bin.  “Nope. Missed my chance, never came back. Not until now.”

Tony flashed him a brilliant smile, brittle at the edges, putting his sunglasses back on. “I hope it was all you imagined it to be, Rogers.”

Steve smiled back, soft and lovely.  “It was.  Thanks, Tony.”

He placed both their clubs on the return counter and stretched, shirt riding up, and Tony had an overwhelming desire to lick the golden skin, fingertips working their way into his waistband, popping the button.  He stifled the urge quickly.

“Happy three weeks, Rogers,” Tony said casually, hating how much he liked the sound of counting anniversaries.  Steve was his PA.  He worked for him.  They weren’t dating.  He was working off Barnes’s debt, technically speaking, and Tony didn’t have all that many weeks left anyway.

And yet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More messing with timelines. A short chapter. But the next one's almost ready, so...

Steve’s tux felt constricting, conspicuous. He twisted, trying to see if it fit right. Tony had apparently put an order in for it yesterday, and when you were Tony Stark, you could get a custom tuxedo in fewer than twenty-four hours.  He’d been working on an email chain from a bank in Monaco that they’d supplied—possibly against their will? He wasn’t really sure—when the tux had gotten delivered.

Tony said it looked fine, glancing over him when he’d gone down to the workshop to remind him to get ready. Tony had wiped his hands on a rag, gulped down the dregs of his coffee.  His arms were more heavily muscled than Steve would have thought for a billionaire engineer, his shoulders and back covered in a sheen of sweat. Steve’s thoughts strayed, looking at Tony’s work-roughened hands, the curve of his neck, the sinewy muscle and cocky smile. The man had disappeared up to his bedroom before Steve realized he’d gone, leaving a trace of his cologne and fired metal behind.

There had been no nightmares this time. No costumes in mind.  Just Tony, brilliant and magnetic. Steve was fucked. 

 --

Up in his room, Tony had barely closed the door before he had a hand down his pants.  Steve looked gorgeous, the thin wool hugging his shoulders and fitting slim on his hips and thighs, sweeping close along his muscles.  The blue accents brought out his eyes, contrasting with the golden shade of his hair.  Some stupid primal part of Tony was also immensely gratified that Steve was wearing a tux that technically, Tony had bought.  Steve was wearing Tony’s clothes—sure, a million miles removed from giving him his high school letterman jacket (not that Tony’d been into team sports) but the same underlying thread of fierce possessiveness wrapped around Tony’s core, sparking hot and fiery in his gut. He brought himself off quickly to the idea of Steve, fully dressed, his hands gently tangled in Tony’s hair and cock buried deep in Tony’s throat, Tony’s name on Steve’s lips, a benediction.

 --

Half an hour into the gala, Steve slipped his phone from his pocket.

_It’s the third time he’s been by._

_I think he knows._

_I think he saw you_.

Dammit. Steve frowned.  _I’ll handle it, Bucky. Just give me a few days_.

In all honesty, he had no idea how to handle the mess.  He wasn’t sure what to do.  There really wasn’t anywhere to turn. He chewed the inside of his cheek and slipped the phone away. Pepper glided up next to him, white suit glowing in the soft lighting. 

“Steve,” she greeted him. “I’m so glad you’re here for Tony, especially with Happy gone.  I need to wrangle a new investor into clean energy.  I’m a wreck—I have to sign Johansson tonight—and I can’t worry about Tony.  Tonight’s going to be difficult, since he doesn’t want to let the public know, well, you know. It’s going to be rough. You’ll keep an eye on him, won’t you?”

“Of course, Pepper,” Steve said, wondering vaguely how she managed the stairs in those heels. He already had a plan, anyway. A plan and a new friend in Sam Wilson, the bartender. Wilson was ex-Air Force, and fortuitously, someone that Steve’d met before on a mission outside Bagram.

“Good,” she said, distractedly.

“Go get your man. I’ve got it covered,” Steve reassured her. “And thanks, by the way, for programming Bucky into my speed dial,” he added, remembering what Tony had said.

Pepper turned to him, surprised. “Tony added that one when Happy and I went down to see him. Otherwise you’d just have me and him.” She smiled at him and straightened his tie.  “He’s right, you know.  You look edible in a tux.” After a final adjustment to his tie, she walked toward the front of the ballroom, muttering under her breath about bagging the Swede.

Tony’d said that? Or was Pepper just… exaggerating? Steve put that thought aside.

It was just like Tony to make sure Bucky’s number was programmed in; he should have known.  Tony was always looking out for other people. When he’d heard Happy’s sister had been in an accident, he’d put Happy on his own private jet and sent him to see her in California immediately.  She was in the hospital, but stable.  Just the other day, Steve had come back from picking up Tony’s tux from the drycleaners and happened to mention in passing how they’d had a broken window from some drunken party goer the night before.  An hour later, he fielded a call from Mr. Kim, thanking Mr. Stark for the new window. He was demanding, sure, but meticulously thoughtful.

Tony was engaged in conversation with a scientist that Steve vaguely recognized as being involved in the Paris Agreements. Tony’s eyes reflected the lighting gently, laugh lines creasing the edges of his eyes when he smiled.  Steve caught himself staring and reminded himself he was there to work.  He was close enough to hear the conversation clearly, but listened with only half a mind.  He was sort of responsible for Happy’s job, too, given that Mr. Hogan was in San Francisco with his sister.  Not that anyone was likely to attack Tony in the middle of a gala, but Mr. Hogan had been very specific.  Barton would drive, and Steve would cover Tony inside the party. He wasn’t sure Mr. Hogan would ever truly like him.  But maybe this was a chance to win him over, prove he was helpful, that he’d protect Tony.

A woman in a dark, slinky dress floated over and joined the conversation, introducing herself as Maya.  She handed Tony a scotch and kissed him on the cheek.  Maybe not a first meeting then. Steve stifled a flare of unaccountable resentment, chiding himself for his irrational reaction. 

Tony transferred the scotch to his right hand, resting it on the table. Steve moved to the edges of his vision so Tony knew it was him. Turning his back to obscure his movements, he deftly switched out his own apple juice for the scotch.  Tony betrayed only a flicker of an eyebrow toward Steve to indicate his confusion, but Steve just turned back to the group, smiling placidly. Maya moved closer to Tony, slipping an arm around him and sliding her hand over his lapels.  Tony’s smile set and Steve could see tensions in the corners of his eyes. He sighed internally, ruefully realizing he’d been paying enough attention to Tony to see minute changes in the set of his mouth and eyes. 

“You should really be talking to Pepper, since she’s CEO now,” Tony was saying, bringing his tumbler to his mouth. He smiled, suddenly, brilliant and real, as Steve saw him realize his glass was now benign.  Steve felt a flash of pride.  _He_ did that.  He was responsible for that smile.  He’d managed to lighten the load for Tony.  He might not be able to figure out his own mess, but he was able to help Tony, a little.  That had to be worth something.

He kept close to Tony all evening, subtly keeping Tony’s drinks switched out.  Every time someone handed Tony a martini, he picked up a decoy Evian from Sam. When there was a toast called out, Wilson had already set aside a glass of sparkling apple juice.  He’d told the former airman that, as a PA, it was important that he always had a drink in hand, to blend, he’d said, and he wanted to match whatever Mr. Stark had, to impress his new employer.  But that he didn’t like to drink on the job. Sam had nodded understandingly, happy to help Steve out.  They’d run a rough mission, Steve’s ducklings being called in to prevent civilian casualties on the Khalid Kandhil extraction and cover Wilson on his way out.  Sam felt like he owed him one, although Steve didn’t see it that way.  It had been a bad mission all around, Kandhil taking out one of the airmen. 

Steve was feeling pretty good about himself. They had maybe only an hour left to go at this thing, and he’d be able to tell Mr. Hogan that everything had gone well, when he inwardly cursed himself for tempting fate.  Senator Stern walked through the door.

Shit.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony was inwardly delighted.  Pepper was handling Johansson with grace, getting him fully on board with the new project. Tony thought he might have met a new collaborator—collaborators, actually—a pair of sweet, enthusiastic British kids.  They might be able to come up with a replacement for the palladium that even Tony hadn’t yet.  Maybe. He wasn’t going to bet on it or anything, but the chance was there.  And Steve.  Steve had been at his side all night, distractingly and devastatingly handsome.  More than that, Steve had been watching his back, taking care of him.  He’d somehow managed to intercept every drink someone brought Tony, swapping them unobtrusively for a more innocuous imposter. He’d managed to divert Christine Everhart to an “inside scoop” with Maya Hansen, playing just dumb enough to make her lose interest in him. There was that Brooklyn kid, again. Tony was glowing internally, basking in the protective warmth of Steve’s focus and concern. He could feel Steve’s eyes on him like a caress. 

Then his conversation with Professor Selvig was interrupted by his least favorite politician—a stocky orange man, dripping insincerity in his shiny suit: Senator Stern.

“Mr. Stark, I’m so happy to see you here,” the slimeball wheezed out.

“Wish I could say the same, but you’d have to be someone else,” Tony said flippantly, hoping he’d irritate the senator enough for him to drop the conversation.  “Aren’t you supposed to be talking to Hammer, instead? He’s still doing weapons contracting.  They might not work, but that doesn’t seem to have stopped you yet.”

Stern’s synthetic smile never left his face.  Maybe it had been surgically set.  Plastic surgery was common in his crowd. “Actually, I wanted to talk to your assistant.”

Weird.  “Miss Potts is actually the CEO—“ Tony began

“I know, Mr. Stark. I wanted to talk to your new assistant. Captain Rogers, was it? Tall and blond.  Kinda hot, if you… go for that kind of thing. No judging! You and I, we’re better than movie stars, you know.  We’ve got power and prestige.” The leer was clear in Stern’s voice as he spoke to Tony as if they were part of some boys’ club, a frat Stern had clearly never grown out of, trying to build bonds over a mutual abuse of power. “We can do anything.”

Tony’s blood seethed, hot.  Stern would never touch Steve.  Tony wanted Steve miles away from here, from this man, this grasping, vile john.

Mindful of the company, of the politics, of all the good he was trying to do, trying to leave Pepper on solid ground, trying to build a legacy that would grow instead of a weapons company, all he said was, “Sounds a little like coercion to me. Not really my style.” He turned to find Steve and give him an errand—to go see Pepper, to find the Fountain of Youth, honestly, anything to get him out of Stern’s reach—but Steve was nowhere to be found.  He’d disappeared, his presence only known by a fresh glass of apple juice on the rocks.

“No, no, of course not.  That’s not what I meant,” Stern backtracked, leaving a trail of slime. “I just wanted to have a conversation with him.”

Right. Whatever Stern wanted, he couldn’t have it. Not from Steve. The thought of the man touching Steve made him sick.

“Well, he may have gone to run a few errands for SI.  I don’t know that he’ll be back tonight.” Tony put on his least-concerned face, perfected from years of living with Howard. 

“Pity,” Stern whined.  “I do so wish I could have seen him.”

Tony grabbed his glass, and raised it in an ironic toast. “Better luck,” he said, derision just under control, and left Stern standing with his cronies. He checked his watch.  He could probably cut out in half an hour.  A little sooner if he promised Pepper he’d be early (on-time, to the rest of the world) to the next board meeting.

He schmoozed with the British kids and told them he was interested in palladium replacements for his clean energy project at their earliest conveniencce.  No need to go into specifics.  As he shuffled his drink to grab his business cards, Steve materialized to deftly hold it for him.  Where had he come from?

Tony didn’t have time to ask, since Maya Hansen was back. She brought another scotch, but since Tony already had one, Steve took it from her, thanking her graciously.  Halfway into his third attempt to extract himself from the conversation, Tony noticed that Stern was moving toward him again, eyes intent.  He turned to tell Steve to go find Pepper, but Rogers had evaporated. Huh. Had he overheard something? No.  There was no way. Had he suddenly developed telepathy? Tony was pretty sure that was still beyond the range of science.

But when he’d blown off Stern and found Dr. Selvig, telling him he’d email his old MIT research notes on the Kuiper cliff, Steve was back, as if he’d never been gone. 

“Where were you?”

“Pepper needed me for a moment, something about Johansson,” Steve replied smoothly.  But there it was again, the same tightness in his jaw as when he lied about Barnes’s girlfriend.  Tony turned back to Selvig for his email address, this time not noticing when Stern cornered him again.  With both relief and confusion, Tony noticed Steve was, once again, a ghost. He tried to brush Stern off again, done with this game, and burning with curiosity.  He finally shook him loose as he moved toward the door, almost made it, when Obie walked in. Stern gave up, disappointed, moving off to circle easier prey.

“Tony, m’boy!”  Obie’s stentorian voice filled the room, jovial and welcoming.

“I think you’re more than fashionably late, Obie,” Tony joked, glad to see another friendly face.

“And I thought I wouldn’t see you here at all! I’m glad to see you here, and not working. It’s a great night, Tony!” Obie boomed. “And I think we’re going to get good news soon, for the company.  I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think it’s going to be time to celebrate soon.  Let’s have a drink now, for luck!” He pressed a very full tumbler into Tony’s hand. 

Shit.

“This is the good stuff, son: Highland Park 50.”

Double shit.

 -

From the foyer, Steve could see Tony eye the glass.  The genius didn’t have very many moves left.  He could take the glass, drink it, and hope for the best—an addict with just a taste of poison.  He could pretend to drop it or knock it out of Mr. Stane’s hand, but knowing men like Mr. Stane, he’d probably just call for another.  He could turn it down, but first, Mr. Stane would be offended, and second, Christine Everhart was watching their interaction like Rita Skeeter, waiting to sensationalize the most trivial events. That would turn into a story about SI being fractured by internal disarray. All options were bad.  None of them gave him an out.  He could see Tony weigh them all, and then begin to lift the glass, tension showing in the set of his lips.

He was moving before he thought about it. 

_-_

Tony had the glass halfway to his mouth when Steve came into the room, smiling goofily and swaying just a little. 

“Mr. Stark, these galas are the best. You’ve got to let me come to the next one. This is the best job,” Steve said, on the edge of slurring. _Nice touch,_ Tony commended him silently. _Not overplayed._ Steve reached for the glass in Tony’s hand, eyes wide and innocent—“For me? You are the best boss”—and downed the glass in one swallow. “Wow. You know, you told me this was going to be amazing, and you’re right.  You really know your whiskey.”

Tony laughed, just the right mix of indulgent and irritated. “New staff, right? Sorry, Obie, I have to get this one home. It’s his first big event, and looks like he’s had too much fun.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Everhart lose interest the minute Steve entered the picture. He was just an assistant, after all.  Pretty, but low ranking. Obie just patted him on the back, chuckling tolerantly.  He knew Obie would understand. 

“So hard to find good help,” he commiserated. “Good night, Tony.” He watched Tony’s retreating figure, Steve leaning heavily on him.

When they got to the car, Barton ( _the only man who can even remotely do my job_ , according to Happy) was waiting to get them home. 

“Thanks for that,” Tony said.  He was truly grateful.  Galas were normally awful.  He knew he had issues with alcohol, but they ran in the family, a long ingrained quirk of biology.  Howard had always maintained there was no such thing as an alcoholic, just a weak man.  He’d often implied to Tony that such a man wasn’t worthy or capable of running SI.  Of course, he’d implied a lot of shit.  Tony just didn’t trust people to be sensible anymore.  He figured, all he had to do was hold out for another few weeks, keep the facade up, and then it would be irrelevant.  Pepper would run SI in her perfect, efficient way.  She’d do her best.  Tony just had to leave her a strong foundation.  He couldn’t risk tanking the business before then. This one good thing, he wanted it to last.

Steve smiled, soft, knowing exactly what he meant.  Now that the gala was over, the weight of it seemed to dissipate from both their shoulders.  “Of course, Tony.” He paused. “What did you normally do?”

Tony scoffed, almost a laugh, brittle and self-mocking. He toyed with his watch, twisting it around his wrist until it left red marks.  “Normally? Normally all I have to do is have one sip, and then suddenly I’ve had more drinks than I remember.  Normally I just have to smell the alcohol underneath the peat and sweetness.  Normally I have Happy pour me into the limo and then I lock myself down for the next couple days.  It’s usually real messy, the first couple hours.  Kinda messy for a day or so.  And then I get it back under control.” He took a deep breath. 

 “I’m sorry,” Steve murmured, voice inexpressibly gentle.

“You saved me from myself, Steve. It’s probably three days of work you saved, plus whatever I’d normally have trashed while I was drunk.” His voice was weary and acidic, heavy with irony, buoyed by a false jauntiness. “Probably another $400k. You’re almost all paid up.” He hated himself. Reminding Steve of just why he was there, that Tony was the sort of man who took advantage of that kind of situation.  But the truth was that Steve _had_ just saved him, and Tony _was_ that man, and he owed him the truth.  Tony twisted the watch again, feeling the metal edge bite deep.

Steve just looked at him pensively, didn’t acknowledge Tony’s comment about the money. He reached out, taking Tony’s hand, stilling his motions. 

They sat that way for most of the ride home.  It was silent, thankfully. The party had been bright and loud, cacophonous.  Tony watched Steve’s hands on his, moving over the soft skin of his wrist absently, calming him. He wondered if it was something he’d picked up being sick, or where the habit had come from.  He thought about the way that Steve had run interference for him.  He thought about the way that Steve was kind and good, how his eyes saw more, how his mind missed nothing, how his heart felt more keenly.  He thought about his loyalty, his dedication, his nightmares.  He thought about how he seemed to give everything and hesitate to assume he was welcome. He thought about that bright smirk, the playfulness he sometimes let Tony see. He thought about the remaining days he was fairly sure the arc reactor would still allow him.   

The night air was soft now, windows down, the warmth of twilight surrendering to a deep and welcoming coolness. Manhattan was bright, but the last few minutes, driving through Tony’s property, muted the neons and fluorescents to allow for the more delicate light from the stars, the forgiving moon. He thought, fleetingly, that if he opened his shirt, the arc reactor would barely be noticeable, reflecting instead the silvery beams from the night sky. _He_ would barely be noticeable. 

Tony turned his gaze back on Steve who seemed lost in thought, eyes transfixed by their hands.  Tony’s skin held a deeper hue, leaving Steve’s to reflect luminescent, milky pale, in the moonlight. A breeze, summery but chill, stole through the window. Tony looked back at their hands. He thought he’d never been warmer. 

As they pulled into the driveway, Tony watched Steve closely as Steve seemed to memorize the way their hands looked.  Tentatively, he reached out his hand to Steve’s face, lightly ran the tips of his fingers down his smooth cheek, electricity sparking at his fingertips and warming him entirely. This was what it felt like to be burning alive and want no relief. He dragged his fingers to the corner of Steve’s mouth, gently pulling Steve to him, slowly, softly, aching in every cell for Steve to turn and kiss him, to want him, to choose him.

The car stopped.

Steve’s eyes, beautiful, clear, reflecting the distant light of other suns, met Tony’s.

“Tony, I can’t—“

"I'm sorry," Tony blurted, and fled. He didn’t wait to hear the rest of what was sure to be a polite, apologetic refusal. He was out of the car and locked in the workshop, total blackout, before Steve could get Jarvis to open the front door.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm an idiot. I went back and found a thing and it interfered with continuity, so I fixed it.

In the end, it was still a rough night.  Stern’s words kept insinuating themselves into his mind: _We’ve got power and prestige… We can do anything…_ Tony gagged, self-loathing and recrimination trying to dislodge the canapes and apple juice.  He’d been disgusted with Stern, righteous in his indignation that the senator treated Steve like an object. But was he any better? He’d hired Steve because of his looks, jacked off to those looks not even five hours ago, and then tried to press himself on Steve in the limo. He was the same, trying to take advantage of that power, trying to use that prestige to make Steve his. His stomach roiled, rebellious, and his lungs ached.  It was probably psychosomatic, but he thought he could feel the arc reactor flicker, dimming a little.

He would not be Stern.  He would not. The stupid thing about the Chihuly was a pretense in the first place; Tony didn’t need the money. Steve was free to go, and he should. Away from Tony. Away from men who thought they were above the law, that their money and their sway granted them privilege.  Stern. 

What exactly did Stern want with Steve, anyway? Well.  Maybe Tony couldn’t take back his crass actions in the limo.  Maybe he couldn’t erase the time Steve had spent playing his assistant.  But he could protect him from whatever Stern wanted. Probably. Men like Stern, like Howard, they understood money and power and threats.  They had to be bullied, or bribed.  Tony had years of practice playing this game, and Tony had learned from the best—Howard had been better at it than this orange buffoon.  Howard had been better at it than nearly anyone. And he was, he thought acidly, his father’s son.  He could see it tonight.  Wouldn’t Howard be proud? Tony fought the queasiness, the nausea.

He accessed Stern’s home computer, digging through his files.  Ugh. The man was despicable—bribes, coercion, a distinct lack of anything resembling a moral compass.  Emails from Howard? Interesting. Not Steve-related, but probably something he needed to know. Maybe something he could use. At the very least, something Pepper should have so she wouldn’t be blindsided in the future.

Tony siphoned the files he needed, scanning them rapidly so he could continue his search.

Shit.

Apparently, they _were_ Steve-related. 

Project Rebirth.  That was Rogers.  Fuck.  Tony didn’t even know the details, just that they’d managed to regenerate musculature via the moronically named “vita rays”, it was the basis for a few of SI’s original vaccines, and that Howard had shut it down after one trial. One trial.  _Sick a lot in middle school. Sort of experimental treatment_. Fuck.

There they were. Photos of Steve, scrawny and defiant.  A fierce surge of protectiveness shot through Tony.  _It would have been wasted on him, though,_ Tony thought, tracing the outline of Steve’s jaw in the photo _. Probably where he picked up the strategy, the self-reliance._ Tony could see the intelligence, the determination, even in the tiny frame.  Like it was fighting to get out, just waiting for a body that could accommodate that much resolve.

And Stern thought he owned him. Literally owned him. Government issued.  Property of the US Army and Senator Stern until they were done with him. And there was Howard, signing off with that squiggly little SI code that Tony hadn’t recognized—although it did look familiar now—conveniently telling Stern he supported the whole transaction, that Stark Industries would press no claim on Steve, in return for amnesty for human experimentation, and that the “test subject” belonged to Stern as long as the senator wanted him.  Fuck fuck fuck.  Tony continued reading. Howard was a grade-A dick, and he covered his ass-- _amnesty_ for human experimentation. Test subject.  That was _Steve_ they were talking about like a lab rat. Erskine’s original document was safe, never digitalized, according to Daddy Dickhead, and housed where Howard could keep an eye on it.  His insurance, Tony guessed, in case Stern ever wanted to renege on his deal. Howard really had been the best at this game. 

Erskine had been in and out of SI for years, right up until Project Rebirth. Nice guy, as Tony remembered.  Kind, always with an encouraging word. But he’d died years ago. And now Howard was gone, clearly Tony had been left in the dark, and Steve had somehow gotten himself discharged.  And Stern thought he could send the wolves after him, get him back into the fold, back under his lecherous, grubby thumb.

Not on Tony’s watch.

Tony grabbed the file from Rhodey he’d never gotten around to opening.  Looked at that squiggly little code again.

“Jarvis?”

“I’m so glad you decided we were on speaking terms again, sir,” the AI replied.  Somebody didn’t like getting shut out.   

Tony rolled his eyes. “Have you seen this before?”

“That appears to be a primitive type of encryption code, sir.”

“Run a search.”

Tony continued staring at the little graphic. Yes, he had seen that before.  On a filing cabinet right in that basement where Barnes had been digging around.  Of course. Jesus, how had he been such an idiot?  And what was in those goddamn files?

Tony shut down his snooping with a quick word to Jarvis to keep him updated and hurried down to the basement. Barnes had been looking in the wrong filing cabinet. 

On his way down the stairs, Jarvis alerted him.  “It matched Captain Rogers’s file, sir, the encryption key for the last file.  It appears to be encrypted by your father, and only has a ten digit passcode.”

Tony was pretty sure he knew what that unlocked.  He picked his way through the basement to the heaviest looking brick in the room.  Yep.  There it was.  An early electronically coded lock.  He entered the digits Jarvis gave him and opened the cabinet—well, safe was probably a closer term.  It was weighty, lined with lead and fireproofed.  He swung the unwilling, creaky door open, reaching inside for the papers within.

 

Most of it was Howard’s work, clear annotations in his cramped, capital letters.  There were a few memos, from Stern, Erskine, and a Commander Phillips, apparently the head of this military experiment, arguing back and forth over the rights they would have over the test subject once he had undergone the procedure. Howard claimed he should have experimental rights and all patents.  That anything the test subject did post-test would fall under his purview since the experiment would never take place without using his facility. And those Vita Rays were his, too.  Phillips argued that the military didn’t actually want to be involved at all, unless the procedure could be given to a test subject of his choice, saying he hadn’t wasted his political capital on “that skinny little gerbil, Rogers.” Idiot. Stern laid claim to the test subject indefinitely on the basis that he had secured the exemptions on human experimentation.  But to each of these, Erskine responded with absolute denial.  He wouldn’t give his formulae, he wouldn’t contribute his singular expertise, unless the subject was released after he’d served his time in the army.  He backed his stance with the Geneva Conventions, Human Rights conventions, and his personal experience, he said, in Nazi Germany.  And there it was: a contract, signed by all of them—Steve too, giving the subject freedom after one term of military service. Magically forgotten in Howard’s safe, hidden from the public.

This was what Barnes had been looking for, what he thought Tony might one day hold over Steve’s head. 

Why hadn’t Steve just said something? Why hadn’t he told Tony about it, that he needed it.  Why hadn’t he said Stern was coming after him? Tony could have helped him.  He could have made sure Stern wouldn’t touch him.  He would have tried, even without this little paper. 

Why hadn’t he just asked for help? It was such a fragile thing, this contract. The slip of paper was all Steve needed.  It was his guarantee.  His freedom. 

Tony would not be like his father. Tony would give it to him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had to fix a thing in this one, too.

“Please, Jarvis,” Steve entreated.

“Sir is on complete blackout, Captain,” Jarvis said regretfully. “Even I can’t speak to him or interfere unless it reaches an extreme threshold of behavior or time.”

“Does Pepper have an override?” Steve asked, clasping at tenuous hope.

“No, Captain.  In complete blackout mode, no one has access. No one has anything.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed, sir.”

Steve was slightly consoled that at least Jarvis seemed to have Tony’s best interests in mind as   well.  But apparently there wasn’t anything either of them could do. How could Tony have built a system that left him so completely isolated? So completely vulnerable?

Steve couldn’t settle.  He didn’t know what to do.  Eventually he went into his room and grabbed a sketchbook, his favorite. The pages were thick and smooth. They calmed him.  He started with sketches from tonight.  The way that Pepper had looked, radiant, beaming with competence and success.  Tony standing with Maya Hansen, her hand on his suit, perfect elegance in the couple.  The startled look on Stane’s face when Steve took the glass of scotch. He started filling in the lines of Stane’s face, recalling the expression of surprise. No, not just surprise.  That was… That was the look of disappointed scheming.  He knew that look from long months in the desert.  Hidden better than most, maybe, but that look covered conniving deceit. He knew.  Stane knew that Tony was an alcoholic trying to be sober.  He knew exactly what he was doing with that glass.  That asshole.  And Tony trusted him. What kind of game was he playing? He ripped out the page, scribbling a note on the back.  Maybe he could get it to Tony anyway.  Somehow.

Tony.

The feel of his fingers on Steve’s face, pressing on his lips. His dark eyes, fragile and longing. The spicy scent of his cologne, underlying notes of fire. The trail of Tony’s fingers still burned in his mind.  He wanted him so badly he ached with it, needing to touch him, needing to feel him. In the end though, he couldn’t.  Not with the taste of scotch still in his mouth, the woodsy flavor and smoke on his lips, the sharp bite of alcohol fresh on his tongue. Tony had evaded alcohol all night; it had been a coup. Steve could see the sense of accomplishment and contentedness Tony felt.  Steve wouldn’t drag Tony down from his success. He couldn’t.

He left his sketchbook, pages filled with Tony, to brush his teeth thoroughly and brew coffee. When Tony lifted the blackout, he could tell him.  He could show him. 

Tony wasn’t at all what he had thought. He wasn’t like Howard, he wasn’t like the magazines portrayed him to be—callous and selfish.  Steve knew that now.  Tony was generous to a fault, probably more brilliant than Howard had been, and Howard had literally cured Steve of a multitude of maladies. But Tony’s genius was tempered by his humanity, his compassion. He was warm and kind. His work would help millions of people.  Howard had wanted a medical experiment and treated Steve like a guinea pig.  Tony would never do that. He brought Steve a glass of water when he was having nightmares, took him mini golfing, teased him about his shitty taste in baseball teams.  Maybe it was being held in Afghanistan that made him so empathetic. Steve’d seen the reports.  He knew what the arc reactor did, on a basic level—after all, Tony had given him access to everything in SI.  He knew it helped him with the shrapnel that still threatened his heart. Did it hurt? Was he in constant pain? Anxiety, metallic and bitter, flooded his mouth, pulsing through his veins.

He returned to his book to calm himself, sketching the arc reactor he’d only seen in person twice. It was beautiful. It was perfect symmetry and balance. The aesthetic was incisive, intuitive. For being a piece of machinery, it was startlingly natural. He pulled apart the pieces in the next sketches, aligning them into a Fibonacci spiral, then expanding them to cover the page in fractals, then building them into a sort of modified tesseract, finally manipulating each fragment into something new—clearly the arc reactor, but something resembling a sun, surrounded by planets, moons held in tow around them.

Finally, he set down the book in the kitchen, next to the coffee maker.  It was almost morning. Dawn stretched rosy gold rays over the tips of skyscrapers, painting their high edges, lightening the sky, alleviating the mystery enshrouding the city.

Tony still didn’t emerge. 

Steve couldn’t get his nerves to calm, deciding instead to start again on that email chain.  He continued sifting through different files and attachments, downloading them to his phone so he could move into the kitchen, where Tony was most likely to show up.  He archived one chain, starting on another.  It looked promising, communication between someone named Raza and a seller who called himself Iron Monger  from about a year and a half ago, just before the weapons started disappearing.  He had just downloaded a copy of their video call when Tony came up the stairs.

Tony looked over at Steve, still hard at work, even after Tony’s transgression.  He swallowed, guilt rising in his throat, threatening to drown him. 

“Steve,” he said softly, staying at the threshold to the kitchen. He wanted to give Steve space, clearly indicate that he wouldn’t try anything again.  That he wasn’t like Stern. Wasn’t like Howard. 

Steve looked up, the same radiant look in his eyes, this time mirroring the morning sun that gilded his skin and swept down his lashes.  He was so beautiful, it made Tony’s heart ache. Not with want or desire, just his sheer loveliness.

“Look, Steve,” Tony said, cutting off Steve’s incipient apology for something he should never have to apologize for.  “I’m sorry.  That wasn’t like me to do something like that. Not anymore. I’m not. I’m not like that. I don’t. I’m not like that.” _I’m not like that, please believe me, I’m not like that, I’m not like them. I’m not Stern. I’m not Howard. I wouldn’t make you._

Steve blinked.  Oh. Tony wasn’t into men. He’d clearly misread the situation entirely, projecting, thinking Tony wanted him when he was just showing Steve kindness. Besides, Tony was more than Steve would ever be, a genius, brilliant and handsome and capable, and Steve was just a lab rat. A soldier, discharged, with no real skill set and no future. Whatever he had imagined before, it was clear enough now. Tony wasn’t into men.  He didn’t want Steve. It hurt more than it should have and it wasn’t even personal. Just Steve’s idiot heart running away with him.

And honestly, it was better this way.  He’d been stupid enough to show up on a news conference. What an idiot. He’d put his face on live television answering Miss Everhart.  Stern knew where he was now. And it wasn’t fair to get Tony involved in any capacity.  He obviously didn’t know about Rebirth, about Erskine or Howard or Phillips.  He didn’t know about Stern. The last thing Tony needed was Stern causing problems, and Steve had brought that to his doorstep anyway. 

He swallowed, guilt and disappointment burning in his chest.

“Is it okay if I come in?” Tony asked, still hovering at the door.

Steve nodded. He hadn’t gotten his voice to crawl over the lump in his throat yet, but he told himself to remember his place.  As a PA. As he’d been hired.

“I found what Barnes was looking for, Steve.  I know you were in Project Rebirth. I found Howard’s papers, your contract.”

Steve paled. “Please, I…” He trailed off. What could he say? He felt overexposed, unable to see the whole board.

“I had Jarvis scan it, but the original is yours.  Stern won’t be able to touch you, I’ve already called him. And if he does, I’ll sue his ass for breach of contract. Or, I mean, I’ll have legal do it. Well, Pepper will have legal do it. Discreetly.”

Steve’s head was spinning, heart a pulpy mess.  Tony knew. He knew everything. And he was on Steve’s side.  A small silver lining on a disappointing day. Not Tony’s fault. People couldn’t change who they loved, after all.  Or who they didn’t, in this case. It was overwhelmingly good news, but Steve’s heart just couldn’t seem to keep up with the roller coaster it had been on. He didn’t know what to do with the news. With his freedom from Stern. 

“Go ahead.  Call your boy, tell him the good news.”

Steve hit #3 quickly. Bucky would be relieved. He worried too much about Steve. “Bucky! I—“

“Stevie, Stevie I’m a mess, man, I’m nothin, they didn’t want me and she left and I got nothin’ left, Stevie, I’m nothin’ I’m nothin’…”

Tony could hear Barnes through the phone. He sounded like pure misery, drunk and crying.

“What are you talking about? Who? Natasha?”

“She left me, man, an’ I don’ blame her, she’s amazing you know? And I’m… fuck, Stevie, I’m nothing…” There was a splash and the line went dead. 

No.  Steve liked Natasha. He would have put money on her asking Bucky to marry her before the end of the year.  She knew how difficult it was to transition back to civilian life, and she’d never been anything but supportive.

He looked up to find Tony looking at him, clearly able to hear. “Go,” Tony said. “I’ll send the rest of your stuff when I get it packed up.”

Steve hesitated. “I don’t know when I will be able to come back. He sounds bad…”

Tony gave a sardonic chuckle. “Rogers. You’ve more than paid off any debt.  If anything, I owe you at this point.  You don’t need to come back.” It would be better, really, if he didn’t.  Better for Steve, certainly.  Probably better for everyone, really. Tony could keep an eye on Stern remotely, make sure he didn’t go after Steve, and get Jarvis to help Rhodey to continue after the arc reactor died. After he died. “The phone’s yours.  Consider it severance.”

Steve was still holding it in his hand. He clicked it locked. “Tony, I…” He didn’t know what to say. He’d miss him? It seemed inappropriate given that Tony had just let him down easy. He’d be back? Steve wasn’t sure when that would be.  Or if Tony would want him back, after last night. And with the secrets he’d kept from him. Well... “Thank you.”

“Go. Make sure Barnes gets help. Make sure he gets into that program.”

Steve stood for a second, frozen with indecision. Then he gave in. If he had only this left, if this was the end, he could allow himself one hug.  It didn’t have to be romantic.  Even if those feelings weren’t appropriate, he still cared for Tony. He knew what a good man he was, what he was trying to do in the world. It could be friendly, and Tony wouldn’t hold it against him. He pulled Tony into a quick embrace, gratitude for all Tony had done for him, regret for leaving him prematurely, and a mix of stifled disappointment and relief he didn’t want to look too closely at right now.

Tony stiffened for a second, then relaxed, arms winding briefly around Steve’s torso.  “Go,” he said again. It was just unfair that he had to keep telling the man to leave, when all he really wanted to do was keep him. But, Steve wasn’t his to keep.  Wasn’t anyone’s.

Steve hurried to the elevator, looking back as the doors closed, eyes obscuring something Tony couldn’t pinpoint. 

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep an eye on Steve’s phone and any contact with Stern.  If Stern tries anything, I need to know.”

“Of course, sir.”

Through the smooth glass, Tony watched his bike leave the garage, feeling more alone than ever.

 

\--

 

 Steve sat in the corner of the bed, holding Bucky’s hand as he slept it off.  It had been a bad night. Alcohol had always fueled bad dreams for Bucky. He knew it, but he’d been so devastated yesterday it hadn’t mattered.  Turned down by the VA.  No real answers, just a vague dismissal from the program.  Natasha had apparently left.  Packed a bag and taken off.  Her stuff was mostly still around, and Steve had a feeling she wasn’t gone for good, but Buck had been too distraught see anything with a clear eye.

Steve had held his hand as he cried, held his head as he’d puked, and put him to bed.  Bucky would be horrified when he realized he was back to being a duckling.  Still, it was the least he could do.  Bucky had always been by his side, always had his back.  He’d had to assign him to some of the most difficult positions when he was the team’s sniper.  Too exposed for comfort, separated from the rest of the team.  But Bucky had never complained.  Never tried to pull rank or earn favor because he was Steve’s best friend.  He just had a job to do.  Watching Steve’s sorry ass, as he usually put it, trying to keep him out of trouble.

He never blamed Steve. Not ever. Not even when he should have.

Bucky was resting peacefully, worn out, so Steve slipped out into the living room to call Natasha. He was midway through dialing her number when his phone started ringing.  Steve grabbed it before it could wake him up.

“Nat?”

“Steve? James’s phone keeps going to voicemail. Is he okay?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in DC. I told him I was going to DC to get in touch with a contact from my old unit.  What’s going on?” her voice was sharp now. Not panicked, but getting there. Her voice was low and level, like always, but he could hear the nerves.

“He thinks you left.”

“Shit.  Hell. I shouldn’t have left him alone.  When he said they denied him I thought I could talk to a friend of mine who’s an aide to a member of the armed services committee. I thought if I talked to her in person I could get him back on the list. Fuck.  He thinks I left him? I would never.  Steve.  You know I would never.”

Steve relaxed.  Of course she wouldn’t. “He was a wreck last night, Nat.  Like before.”

She swore, angrily. “Steve, I’m getting him back on that list. I’m not leaving until I find someone who can make it happen.  You know I don’t care. You know I love him, arm or no arm. But I will not let him get shunted aside by someone who doesn’t know what he’s been through.”

“I’ll tell him. Let me know what you find out. Just text me.  He’s still sleeping.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Steve ended the call, enormously relieved.  Bucky would be okay. Nat would be able to fix it.  He’d never met someone more determined. He went back to the bedroom. Bucky hadn’t moved, so he grabbed a book to keep himself company.

His mind kept straying.  Tony.  He’d really messed things up with him.  He thought he had been helpful.  He was pretty sure that he’d been able to keep most of the day to day chores off of Tony’s desk, managed to ease his mind sometimes.  Helped him, even, keep his cover at the gala.  He just shouldn’t have let himself get so carried away.  Steve grimaced, thinking of the romantic signals he must have been projecting.  Had Tony caught him ogling? Had he seen him when he’d mentioned the maid’s outfit? Had Steve’s words given him away? It was humiliating.  And Tony had never said anything.  Too polite, probably. He remembered a snippet of conversation from just a few days ago. _I bet you were drowning in girlfriends. Or boyfriends. I mean, who am I to judge_... That had probably been Tony’s way of implying that he knew about Steve’s crush.  That he was fine with him liking men, but to set his affections elsewhere. Polite. Accepting.  But ultimately an implicit reminder that there were other women and men he should consider instead. One of those fish-in-the-sea things.

And now he knew, anyway. He knew exactly what Steve had never been.  That this body was all a sham anyway. That the muscles came out of Howard’s lab, that Steve was masquerading in this body. That the real Steve was tiny, a sickly twig, who never caught anyone’s eye. Who Tony would never have looked at twice. Even if he had been interested in men.  In Steve. There had been rumors, back when Tony was younger, before Afghanistan.  But it had been years since those, and Steve obviously knew just how wrong the press had been.

Still.  He missed him. He missed the way that Tony ran his hands through his hair when he was in the middle of a project, leaving smudges. He missed the look Tony gave him when he brought him food in his workshop, like cooking him lunch was a work of genius and kindness that no one had ever done before.  He missed the startling way that he could break down what he was working on so that Steve could understand it, using him as a sounding board for his ideas, and listening when Steve occasionally had a suggestion.  His intensity when he was excited, the softness when he was tired. The wry wit and quick jokes. His smile. 

Fuck.  Steve had to get this stupid, useless infatuation out of his mind.

Eventually, mid-morning, he got a text from Nat saying Stern had used his influence to get Bucky off the list.  Making a play at Steve, probably. Fuck. She had an appointment with his office at noon. 

Damnit. His brain started spinning, considering ways to convince Stern to play fair, only take aim at Steve.  Was this retribution for Tony’s threat? No. It had to have been before that. Bucky had been drinking for hours to be in that state. It was probably a power play to get Steve to come crawling to Stern.

He was still trying to figure out an angle when his phone beeped again.

_I’m on my way back. He’s first on the list again. Procedures start next week._

Steve had been confident in her abilities, but what had Nat said that got the senator to back off so quickly? _What happened?_

_Nothing. I got to his office. He said it had been a misunderstanding. Said James was back at the top of the list. Thanked me for my service. Weird. Creeper._

That. Was unexpected. 


	12. Chapter 12

“Sir, Captain Rogers’s phone is not being called by Senator Stern, but it seems that you would like to know that he is currently under discussion by text.”

“Is Steve in trouble?”

Jarvis paused.  “In a manner of speaking, sir.”

In a manner of speaking? Well. Still. Maybe he shouldn’t look at the texts directly, but Jarvis could still help him out. “What’s the issue, J?”

“Senator Stern blacklisted James Barnes from the prosthetics list last night, sir, apparently after Captain Rogers gave him the slip.”

Damnit.  That asshole.

“J. Send the esteemed senator a note.  Tell him to release his hold on Barnes or we go public on that story. Don’t even use the contract.  Just tell him that Stark Legal is taking Barnes’s case on, pro bono, with all the magic of Pepper’s PR team, and we will have the distinguished purple cross veteran polished up and pouring his heart out to Anderson Cooper before Stern can finish lunch. It will ruin him. His constituents will burn him in effigy by dinner. Hell, not just Anderson.  He’ll do an afternoon show with Ellen and then I will personally have Happy shuttle him over to tear up for Oprah.”

“Miss Winfrey does not have a television show at this time, sir,” Jarvis replied primly.

“If I need it I’ll get her back on the air by 3,” Tony retorted.

“Of course, sir. I shall relay your message immediately.” Jarvis sounded more pleased than he had since Steve left.  Not that he was supposed to get attached to the guests. Still, Steve was Steve. Hard not to get attached.

It had only been a few hours, but he missed him.  The house felt too empty. Steve brought warmth and life to this place that Tony hadn’t even known was missing.  Now, though, it was all he could focus on.  The cold that seeped in when Steve left.  Not that he regretted sending him away.  It was the right thing to do.  Barnes needed him, and Steve didn’t owe Tony anything.  Everyone got what he or, well, he needed.  Barnes got his friend, and his friend’s contract.  Steve got freedom from Stern.  Tony had an unbelievably talented PA for nearly a month. He rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, then ran his hand over the metal in his chest. 

“J, what’s the output?”

“The arc reactor is at twelve percent, Sir. It appears to be degenerating more quickly as it becomes weaker. I estimate it will last you two days, at most.”

Tony had evaded death so far.  He had one more card he might be able to play. 

“The British kids haven’t sent anything over, have they?”

“Regrettably not, sir.”

“Start a call with them, would you?”

Tony let his imagination run while Jarvis called the kids.  In this alternate future, he lived, somehow replacing the palladium that was burning out.  In this world, he saw the wells preventing cholera for millions, the refugee camps providing security—true homes, now—until Assad finally gave up and submitted himself to the ICC.  Steve came back, maybe just to check in now and again, Barnes in tow, both having forgiven him.  Still.  If he’d set all that in motion, that wasn’t so bad.  So maybe he wouldn’t see it grow to fruition, maybe his slate wasn’t clean, maybe he wasn’t in the black, but that had to make up for some of his sins. 

“Mr. Stark!” one of the kids said into the video call.  Her eyes sparkled, excited.  “We’re so honored to have you call us, we’ve been looking into palladium replacements—“

“Yeah, but the palladium’s got a complex structure that’s really only intended—“

“Nobody intends, anything, Fitz, really! It’s like you’ve forgotten you’re a scient—“

“I hadn’t forgotten, Jemma, I’m just trying to—“

“Anyway, Mr. Stark,” Jemma continued, as if their momentary bickering was commonplace.  From what Tony had seen at the gala, it was. “We haven’t found a suitable replacement.  We tried looking at some other elements and compounds, but we haven’t narrowed it down yet. But it’s _so_ interesting! We haven’t had anything like this since school!” She beamed at the camera, clearly pleased with having such a complex task.

Tony smiled, tasting disappointment. If only it were that theoretical.

Once he ended the call, Tony let the reality of everything hit him.  He looked down. The reactor was dying, truly.  The inner core could barely light up one of the leaves of the outer circle. Well, the situation was dire.  He’d always known that.  Since he’d blown his way out of the cave in Afghanistan, he knew he was living on borrowed time.  Now that time was coming due.

He’d already set most things in order.  Pepper would get control of SI with Obie to help her.  He’d write in a renewable grant for the British kids.  They were good kids, they could make huge progress in their fields. A large chunk of change for Rhodes.  Not like he needed it, but Rhodey had been with him through some of the worst times and never asked for a thing.  The rest of his estate would go to the Maria Stark Foundation.

Jarvis’s voice broke into his thoughts, once again bringing news about Barnes.  “Mr. Stern apologizes profusely, sir.  He says no need to bring Anderson Cooper into this, or Mr. Barnes, and he is so sorry to have irritated you. He appears to find Mr. Cooper rather intimidating.”

Sniveling little orange worm.  Tony was certain Stern was sorry.  He should have known better than going up against Howard’s son.  So Barnes was back on the list, just waiting for the VA to start procedures for their enhanced prosthetics. A little help with the funds on that probably wouldn’t hurt, either.  Get the program going, expand its capabilities.  The Maria Stark Foundation could ensure that the wait list wasn’t so exclusive going forward, could help more of the men and women who came back with injuries. 

“J, whatever that prosthetics program costs at the VA, find out how much it is, and double it.  Make an anonymous donation via the Maria Stark Foundation.  Attach a rider to it—half the funding into mental health care. Make it happen today.”

He’d looked at Steve’s file back when Rhodey had handed it over.  Rogers had been to see a doctor all of twice.  He’d been in to two counseling sessions and then waived the rest.  No fault on the doctors.  They’d been overworked.  And it wasn’t like anyone was going to get Steve back in to see another one when his mind had been made up against it, the stubborn fool.  But Steve’s nightmares were clearly not new or unexpected. Tony thought, knowing Steve as much as he did now, the soldier probably didn’t want to impose.  Probably felt like he didn’t deserve the help as much as other people did, always selling himself short.  The VA shouldn’t have to count pennies when it came to helping veterans.  And Tony could help out a little.  In recognition of the men and women who had been with him in Afghanistan.  In recognition of Steve.    

Speaking of which, Tony needed to pack up his belongings, ship them back to Barnes’s apartment.  Not like there was a lot to pack.  But Steve had run out of here without anything—just a phone. 

He wandered back up to the kitchen, feeling out of place.  Already contemplating a world without himself in it.  He ran his hand over the wall as he walked up the stairs, noticing the fine grain to it.  Light filtered through the skylights above, washing over him.  It was quiet, but that was somehow right.  Fitting.  He pulled the belongings out of Steve’s drawers.  Just some clothes, a watch.  He placed them neatly into the duffel bag that lived in the bottom drawer, dog tags swinging aimlessly from a strap.  He ran his fingers along them for a moment, tracing the name and numbers, the ridges smoothing out at the edges.

Tony looked around the room for any other pieces of Steve, then headed to the kitchen.  He’d seen Steve’s second sketchbook out by the coffee maker.  He dropped the bag on the table and picked up the sketchbook, dropping a loose leaf that floated gracefully to the floor.  He picked it up.  Obie.  That was weird.  But the drawing itself was technically skilled.  That same eye for balance that had drawn the trees on his blueprints, weeks ago.  Obadiah’s scruffy beard, shot through with grey.  He could almost feel the weight of the glass of scotch being offered in his left hand.  Clearly a recreation of that scene from—was it only last night? It felt like decades ago.  That look on his face.  Tony remembered it as being paternal and warm.  Had Steve not gotten the eyes quite right? How had he missed the look in Obie’s eyes when he got the tiny patch of his right eyebrow that stuck up belligerently and the exact angle of that crease in his forehead? A small recalcitrant part of him wished it were jealousy on Steve’s part.  Wishful thinking. Still.  It was a vivid representation. Powerful—the term described both the man and the drawing. 

He opened the book toward the middle so he could add the loose sketch back in. 

Wow.

The arc reactor.  It was perfect. 

Every little detail.

Ten individual sections of light, three perfectly balanced rays bisected by three slimmer rods.  

Jesus. Good thing Steve wasn’t a corporate spy. He’d seen the thing once? Twice? And he sketched a perfect replica from memory?

He flipped to the next page, unable to deny his curiosity. 

 The reactor was still recognizable, but stretched into a nautilus, winding around itself.  It was beautiful, like a flower in the midst of unfurling.  The next page patterned the shape geometrically, as if Gatsby had decided to forgo his green light in favor of a love affair with an arc reactor.  The following sketch pulled the reactor into four dimensions as much as it could while using only two.  Tony had never thought about it like that.  There was so much potential.  He turned the page again.  The center of the arc reactor, the heart, encircled by an orbiting set of external lights.  It looked like a hyper stylized flower.  Or a solar system.  It was beautiful.  Was it hubris to get a drawing of something you made framed, if someone else had drawn it and it wasn’t quite your original creation? What would Miss Manners say? Emily Post? Emily Gilmore? Screw that. What would Pepper say? She was always a good judge of what was tasteful.  Tony’s wry humor came back to him.  He could leave it to her.  If Steve said it was okay.  He could leave her a giant rendition of his true heart.  The thing that made him see the need to do good in the world.  To leave behind something better than himself.  Sure, it might kill him, but it made him have a life worth living.  Better not tell her the killing him part.  She probably wouldn’t like it as much. 

The arc reactor was stunning. It was.  Symmetrical, perfect, and powerful.  It had literally saved his life, and then made him redeem it, so it was gorgeous on its own.  But seeing it rendered into this new idea, through Steve’s eyes. Something that Steve must have seen as worthwhile, too.  Something he must have seen as beautiful.

“J.  Take a photo of this. Ask Pepper if we can put it in the hallway. Tell her Steve drew it so she’ll need to get clearance from him.”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony was really going to miss Jarvis.  If he could miss people once he was dead.  If he could really miss AI when he was dead.  AI that he had created. Was that like missing himself? Could he miss himself?

He put the sketch of Obie in the book, closed it, and laid it on top of the clothes in Steve’s bag.  That was it.  He’d have someone take it to the apartment tonight.

Not much left to do.  He should probably finish up on the body suit he’d been building for Rhodey.  That guy did far too much active duty for someone as high ranking as he was.  And it was basically done.  It was actually complete.  And excellent.  Totally protective.  Just, no way for Rhodes to really get into or out of it yet.  Details.  Shouldn’t take long—it was just a matter of getting seams and releases in places that wouldn’t compromise the integrity of the suit itself.  No point in a body suit if it didn’t protect the body. 

He grabbed an apple from the counter and went down to the workshop. 

“Miss Potts calling, sir.”

“Pep, Virginia, boss lady, what can I, humble servant, do for you?” It would have gone over better if his mouth hadn’t been full of apple.

“Tony, why do you want to hang up a drawing of an atom in the hallway?”

“It’s not an atom, Pep, it’s a…” Tony trailed off.  He flipped the photo onto one of the displays.  “Son of a bitch.”

“Tony?” Pepper asked, confused.

“I gotta go.  You’re the best, you know that?”

“So, you do want this to go in the hallway?”

“Yes.  Yes I do.  Can we get one?”

She peered at him doubtfully over the video call.  “Okay, Tony. We’ll write up a contract for Steve.  Oh, and Mr. Stane is going to come see you this afternoon.  Something he wants to discuss with only you.”

“Send him over.  I’m home all day, you know where I live. Will that be all, Miss Potts?”

She smiled at him.  “That will be all, Mr. Stark.”

So maybe, maybe, if everything went right, she’d have to wait a little longer for total control of SI.  He didn’t think she’d mind.

 

\--

Steve knew it hadn’t really been a mistake. Stern definitely had ulterior motives to getting Bucky off the list. It was a clear ploy.  Stern had been trying to corner Steve all night, been dogging him since before then. 

Tony.  It had to be.  No one else that Steve knew had that kind of power.  And Tony had been able to get him to back off once before.  It had to be.  He was still doing favors for him, even after Steve… He blushed, uncomfortable with himself.

Well.  He could show his gratitude by finishing the job he’d been meant to do in the first place.  Once he’d figured out what part of SI had gone bad, he could bring the news to Tony with an apology. Satisfied he had a plan, Steve popped in a pair of earbuds and started playing the video he downloaded earlier.  The video was recorded showing the face of the guy going by Raza, but the quality was terrible.  Bad enough that translation services couldn’t automatically transcript it.  Steve could handle Farsi, but his Tajik, which he was pretty sure this was, wasn’t as fluent. They were close enough that he could get part of it, but was going to need Google to sort out some of the unfamiliar vocabulary. He got that there was a transaction for a hit of some sort on an exceptional military unit.  Not as unusual as it should be in a country with high levels of poverty and instability.  Warlords always found a way to profit.

Taking out a specialized unit.  An essential step in order to lay the groundwork for a future something.  Job?  That seemed a little weird, and more organized than he was used to seeing in a lot of the smaller warlords.  The other voice on the call seemed somewhat familiar, but that could just be his brain playing tricks on him.  It wasn’t like he knew a lot of people who might be involved in these kinds of deals.  He didn’t recognize Raza, he didn’t think, but the video quality was shitty and the small screen of the phone didn’t help. 

Okay, he could work with this.  He wrote down a number of words phonetically, saving them for Google, all the while keeping an eye on Bucky.  The poor bastard was still completely dead to the world.  It was good for him, though.  Steve’d tried to wake him up, tell him the news, but Bucky had been solidly asleep.  For now, Steve took his list of words over to the kitchen to make a snack for himself. He brewed another pot of coffee, trying not to think fondly that Tony would happily mock the little Mr. Coffee sturdily doing its job—trying to do its job.  It really just heated water and turned it brown. But Steve hadn’t had a lot of sleep over the last few days; he’d take what he could get.  He sliced up some cheese and laid it across a piece of what Steve thought was probably bread.  Probably.  Natasha had decided to try baking—as a form of therapy, she said.

“What’s the difference between punching a lump of dough and punching a bag? Other than I get food at the end of the first one?” she’d asked, ever practical. 

He thought her technique could use some work.  This was more in the vein of “things to hit people with” rather than “things to eat.”  He poured two mugs of coffee.  Maybe Bucky would wake up for him this time. 

He walked back into the bedroom, this time opening the windows to let fresh air in.  He startled a bluejay that was sitting outside the window and it squawked at him, disgruntled, while he shook Bucky’s shoulder.

 Finally.  Bucky’s eyes opened, still bleary, but conscious this time.

“Steve?”

“You drooled on me.”

“Punk, you should be honored I chose to drool on you.” Bucky wiped at his face, puffy and swollen from the night before. “I feel like I got hit by a train.” He gagged, trying to get rid of the taste of stale alcohol. Steve handed him a steaming mug.  “Jesus.” He drank for a minute, silent and still prone.  “Did you… Did you say Nat is coming back?” There was a little quaver in his voice, almost imperceptible.

  Steve smiled to himself.  When Natasha did ask Bucky, he’d definitely say yes.  Figures he’d ask about her before asking if he was back in the program for his arm.  “Yeah, she said she couldn’t leave your ugly mug.”

“I ain’t ugly, you ass,” Bucky said, swiping at him.  He paused.  “Did you say she got me back in?”

“Yep.  No more one-armed bear wrestling for you.  And before you say it, yes, she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you and that includes when you got your expert qualification.”

 Bucky smiled and tried to sit up, wincing. “Christ.  Did you push me off a cliff or something last night?”

“That was all you, Buck.  And you broke your phone again.”

“Nat’s gonna kill me.” He was suddenly alert.

“For being a drama queen? I mean, probably. She’s on her way back and you stink. When you’re showered, I’ve got news.  Good news.”

“Stern or Stark?” Bucky teased.  He knew Steve’s type, watched him fall for a feisty temperament with a sharp brain and dark eyes before. 

Ouch.

“Stern.”

Bucky looked up, squinching his eyes against the sunlight, hearing something in Steve’s tone.

“After your shower. You don’t want to welcome Natasha home smelling like that.”

Bucky sniffed himself and gagged again.  He stalked off to the bathroom, grumbling under his breath. As Bucky showered, washing the night and misery off his skin, Steve wished he could have done the same.  Cleansed himself of the last few days, started over.  It didn’t matter.  He sat down at the table, pulling Bucky’s tablet toward him and got to work translating.  Raza appeared to be based somewhere just outside Jalalabad.  Probably a little to the north, based on his Tajik. From what Steve could put together (thank you, Google), Raza was going to get a test batch of weapons to help with eliminating the specialized unit—some sort of retrieval unit?  After that, if everything went according to plan, they could go for the real target. 

Finally Steve was making progress.  Chasing the money directly hadn’t worked, too many international laws and lack of transparency making real headway almost impossible. The banks catered to people who had the funds to keep them rich, hiding them away from taxation and laws.  This email chain had to be the way in.

He downloaded the next batch of messages.  They loaded fairly quickly, thanks to Natasha’s ominously named leechandiwill3ndy0u wifi. Mostly just dates and times.  Negotiations and counteroffers, narrowing down to a specific date and time with more details on the target. 

Shit.  This could not be happening.  Too many pieces were falling into place. Steve couldn’t breathe, his lungs burning for oxygen. Shit shit shit. That date, just about a year ago.  Halfway between Jalalabad and Peshawar.  Those were indelibly carved into Steve, the source of his guilt, the way he’d earned his discharge. Earned on the backs of his troops, at the cost of Bucky’s arm.  Not a retrieval unit. A rescue unit.  His unit.  Whoever it was had made a deal to sell Tony’s weapons to a warlord in Afghanistan to take out Steve’s ducklings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This appears to almost be the end. So close! Um. Let me know what you think?


	13. Chapter 13

Tony was covered in sweat, having spent the last few hours rearranging the workshop.  Back into hardware mode.  Jarvis had gotten some workmen to dig most of what he needed from storage.  They’d been sweaty and smelly and disgusting, and using his elevator, but he couldn’t complain.  They did the heavy lifting and got the equipment to him sooner than he had anticipated. Tony had told himself severely that he did not wish they were Steve.  It hadn’t helped.  Dynalab and ADC rushed him a shipment. Being Tony Stark did come with some perks. Like the ability to pay double the rush fee and get supplies delivered within the hour.

When he thought he had everything complete, he left the soldering gun cooling on a side shelf and grabbed a powerbar.  How had he forgotten just how disgusting they were? Maybe it was his gloves, since they still wore streaks of white lithium.  He stripped them off and tried again. Nope. That was definitely just how powerbars tasted.  He’d been spoiled.

Jarvis had said he’d run some simulations, but Tony knew it would work. It would. Everything was in its place.  He’d have to pull power from all three backup generators, but they were fully fueled and he’d already rechecked the power grid.  Power was not going to be a problem. He had Steve’s book lying open on a workbench.  Inspiration.  Sure, he could just have Jarvis project the image for him, but having the tangible book, Steve’s initials painstakingly sharpied on the cover… In a pathetic little way, it was like a piece of Steve was still there with him.  He knew it was stupid.  He pulled the leather gloves back on and checked the coils one last time.

“Alright, J.  Hit it.”

“Initializing prismatic accelerator,” Jarvis announced.  Tony grabbed a wrench.  The last part had to be cranked by hand. 

“Approaching maximum power,” Jarvis warned.

A blue laser shot from the prismatic core, slicing cleanly through several sets of industrial shelving and sending tools and sheets of metal clanging toward the floor. Well, collateral damage.  Worth it, this time. He turned the laser toward the stabilizer, praying to a god he didn’t believe in and science he did that it would work and held his breath.  Bad idea.  Muscles need oxygen.  And there, it took! Yes! He was a genius! He’d always known it was going to work! He hit the shut off switch with a gloved hand.

“That was easy,” he muttered under his breath to no one. Taking off his safety glasses, he ducked under the accelerator and sat down at the worktable.  He examined the glowing triangle.  It looked stable. He grabbed a pair of needle nose pliers. 

“Congratulations, sir,” Jarvis said, “you have created a new element.”

He did it.  He’d really done it. Tony delicately placed the triangle in the redesigned core.  He’d had to modify the device to accept the hypothetical element, making the reactor currently in his chest seem outdated and clumsy.  Well, he preened smugly, the previous reactor was based on Howard’s work, anyway.  This new one, this was all his.  His baby, so to speak, but cooler and with less mess.  He looked around at the devastation that used to be a workshop.  So maybe not less mess.  But less smelly, anyway.

“Sir, the reactor has accepted the modified core.  I will begin running diagnostics.”

Tony was still marveling at his creation, basking in—pride wasn’t quite the word he was looking for, except that it was.  He’d made this.  It was going to save his life.

“Mr. Stane is on his way down, sir.”

Wasn’t he early? Well, shit, the workshop was a disaster zone.  On the other hand, Obie had been almost family for longer than Tony had been alive.  He’d seen worse.

For some reason, he thought briefly about the look on Obadiah’s face in Steve’s drawing.  Which was stupid, irrational. It was literally a drawing, not reality. Totally unfounded, but Tony put the new reactor in Dum-E’s claw and threw what had once been an MIT sweatshirt before it was used as a shop rag over it.  Christ, maybe he was getting paranoid before he ever hit middle age. Going to Howard Hughes it.  Well, better than Howard Starking it? It wasn’t actually funny but to hear Stark as a verb… He gave a small laugh.  He could now. Everything seemed a little lighter now that he wasn’t going to die.

“Shut everything down, J. Show me that _Frontline_ episode on Syria instead.” The projections disappeared and Martin Smith’s voice started in the background as Obie’s Italian leather shoes came scuffing into view down the staircase. “Let him in.”  The door popped open.

Tony couldn’t contain himself, his good mood spilling over despite his absurd caution. “Obie! You will not believe.  The things.  The ideas. I have all the ideas. Did you see the reports from our South Asia team? The first camp.  It’s built.  They’ve gotten overflow from those two camps in Jordan and Lebanon with zero instances of cholera and 100% vaccination rate against polio.  It’s working.  It’s amazing. And the UN Refugee Agency is sending a liaison next week to talk with SI about how to replicate them.” And now, Tony himself was going to be able to meet with them instead of being worm food.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Obie drawled, walking over to his workbench. “That’s a publicity stunt! It was to shut the hippies up. We lose money there, every day. We need to get back to basics, Tony. We’re a weapons manufacturer.” Obie was shaking his head slightly, as if surprised by Tony’s naivete.

“Obie, I just.” He paused, his giddiness momentarily interrupted. “I don’t want a body count to be our only legacy, that’s it.”

“That’s what we do, Tony. We make weapons. What we do keeps the world from falling into chaos.”

“Not based on what I saw.” The dirt floor, Yinsen. The taste of fear. “We’re not doing a good enough job.” Tony picked up a screwdriver, tapped it in his hand a few times.  Put it down. “We’re going to do better. We’re going to do something else.”

“Like what, Tony?” Was that patronizing tone truly there, or was he being swayed by Steve’s drawing?

“Obie, you’re not listening.  I don’t want weapons to be what I’m remembered for; it _can’t_ be our only legacy.  My only legacy,” he finished softly. He found himself looking down at the sketchbook still lying open on the workbench, somehow left unscathed by the falling shelves (and one very small and easily extinguished fire—Dum-E actually got it this time, which was worth celebrating in its own right).  He closed the book, smoothed the cover, fingers unthinkingly tracing over the letters on the front.  The edges of Steve’s drawing of Obie stuck out, a bit dog-eared.

“Tony, why are you worrying about this? You’ve got years left. You’re young and healthy, right? Am I right?”

Tony turned to look at him, really look at him, the way he was rocking a bit on his heels, hands in his pockets, waiting for an answer he already had.  Somehow.  Somehow he knew.  But no one was supposed to know.  Literally no one.  Rhodey didn’t know.  Pepper didn’t know.  The only people who had any idea what Tony had in his chest were a pack of terrorists in Khost and Steve.  And the thought of Steve betraying his secrets was too painful to consider. He buried that notion immediately.

“Could you have a lousier poker face? Just tell me. Who told you?”

“Nevermind who told me. Show me.”

Fuck.  Well, if he already knew, what difference did it make? Tony unbuttoned his shirt.  The light emitting from his chest was barely noticeable, one petal struggling valiantly to shine.

Obie surveyed it for a moment. “So you’re almost out of juice, huh? What’s the prognosis?”

“A day.  Maybe two.” His phone rang.  He looked at it.  Steve.  Was he in trouble? Was Stern trying something again? Apologizing to Obie and promising to return immediately, he started up the stairs to the living room. It had been a long day and a longer night before, and Tony’s exhaustion showed. The dying reactor probably didn’t help. His progress up the stairs was slow and his breath came heavy and difficult. The phone continued ringing in his hand, long after it should have stopped.  Apparently Pepper had shared the secret of how to bypass voicemail. Hitting answer when he reached the sofa, he quickly put the phone to his ear.

“Steve?”

“Tony, I’m so glad I got ahold of you.”

Suddenly Tony was knocked down onto the couch and frozen, a high-pitched tone shrill in his ear.  What the hell was that?

A large hand moved in front of his face and his phone was plucked from his grasp.  He could hear Steve saying his name again and again. Then a spotless, smooth finger hit the end-call button and the phone was tossed to the floor, an Italian leather shoe crushing it under its heel. Shit.

The piercing tone died away.

“You remember this little guy, right? One of Howard’s last. It’s a shame the government didn’t approve. There’s so many applications regarding short term paralysis.” Obie chuckled, removing plugs from his ears as he moved into Tony’s field of vision.  “You know what I was wondering just a minute ago?” He held out Steve’s sketchbook in the same hand as the paralysis device.  “How did your little rent boy figure me out?”

Tony’s vision was a haze of red. He could practically feel his blood pressure spike dangerously—couldn’t tell if he was more angry or confused, although scared could probably round out the top three.  Steve was no one’s rent boy, didn’t belong to Tony. How dare Obie talk about him in that condescending tone? But figure out what? And how? And how did he know whatever it was that he knew?

“But then I realized, I’ve already taken him out once.” Stane scoffed, almost a laugh. “It should be easy enough to do it again.”

Somehow Tony’s confusion must have shown, paralysis be damned, because Stane continued in his villain rant.  Typical.  Obie was always one for grandstanding, and Jesus, Tony of all people could recognize a grandstand. “Ah, Tony. When I ordered that hit on you, I knew if that pack of fucking rabid Howling Commandos was around, they’d come and get you right away.  Had to take them out first.” Stane bent down so his face was inches away from Tony’s, reeking of cigar tobacco and cologne. “Worked like a charm. Took a nice little package of Starktech weapons, delivered to my late pal, Raza, but poof!” He grinned sharply, unfolding his hand like a small explosion. “No Commandos.  No Rogers.  No one to rescue poor little Tony.” He stood up again, the afternoon light glaring harshly against him, washing him out.

“Now with you gone, Stark Industries can get back to doing what it’s best at.  Making weapons that will help steer the world back on course.  With the balance of power in our hands.  The right hands.” He was holding the sketch of himself, examining the shading. And then Tony saw it, Steve’s neat letters. _Don’t trust Stane.  He knows. He’s trying to hurt you_. Vague enough that if someone else ended up seeing it they wouldn’t know it was about the glass in Obadiah’s outstretched hand.  Smart. Loyal. Tony’s heart ached a little thinking of Steve, knowing that Steve hadn’t betrayed him, wouldn’t betray him. “I know you think Miss Potts will be able to keep Stark Industries on this path of water filters and baby bottles, but… it’s hard to turn a ship that’s been going full steam ahead.  I think you’ll find she’s no match for me. Or you would, if you had more time.” Contempt filled his voice. For Tony.  For Pepper. 

Tony had never felt more powerless in his entire life.  He was literally powerless, incapable of moving.  He couldn’t do anything.  He couldn’t protect Pepper, or Steve, he couldn’t stop Obadiah. And God, that hurt. He’d trusted him.  The man had been like an uncle more than a business partner. He had been on the very short list of people that Tony thought he could rely on.  But Obadiah was wrong about Pepper.  If Pepper knew he was trying to get control of the company, she could flay him alive in a board meeting while still wearing her stilettos and not getting a drop of blood on her pencil skirt. She knew the SI better than anyone, including Stane.  Or Tony.  It was just a matter of her not being blindsided, like he’d been.

Obadiah chuckled again, dropping the book onto the table and taking the pair of needle nose pliers from his shirt pocket. He sat next to Tony on the couch, a horrible imitation of camaraderie. “You know I’d… I’d feel bad, if I thought I was cutting your life short.  But, like you said, you’ve only got a couple days left anyway.  I’ll just… make this,” he pulled the reactor partially out of the casing, “a little faster…” He poked at the remaining cell with the tip of the pliers, a grating noise as it scratched, damaging it.  It flickered erratically. He smiled, a shark’s smile.  And now Tony saw exactly what Steve had seen.  How had he known? Obadiah slotted the reactor back into his chest.  “Howard’s kid.  I hate to imagine what he’d think of you now. Still can’t quite live up to the Stark name.” Stane patted his shoulder in a fatherly way, still chuckling.  He put the rest of the sketchbook next to Tony on the couch, crumpled the one of himself, and threw it in the fireplace. He tapped on the reactor again with his pliers.  The last sectional light went out.

“Still a disappointment,” he said, almost regretfully.  He stood up and stretched.  “Well, m'boy,” he said, his tone perking up, becoming businesslike, “I told Miss Potts to make an appointment for me to meet you here at 4:30.  So I’ll be back in,” he checked his watch, “just about an hour to find you.  Don’t worry.  We’ll make a big event of it.  Flowers, the whole works.” He wiped the pliers on his shirt, pressed Tony’s fingers against them, set them on the table, and walked away.

The front door closed gently.

Fuck. This was really fucked up.  He was dying, when he’d just created life. Christ, this was irony at its finest.  He’d found the key to surviving and it was downstairs in the hands of his first bot.  Well, the claw of his first bot. If there was a god, Tony bet he’d be laughing his goddamn head off.  It hurt to breathe.  It hurt to sit there and die, too, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was really going to die here.  On his goddamn couch in his own fucking living room. Hell, if he could breathe, he’d be laughing at the situation, but maybe that was the lack of oxygen speaking. He could feel himself getting hysterical.

Tony’s toes started to tingle after a minute.  After another minute, just the tips of his fingers.  His movement was going to return to him.  With an enormous act of willpower, he forced his head down to see where his shirt was still unbuttoned.  He huffed a tiny laugh, as much as he could with his current inability to breathe.  The center of his reactor was flickering violently, the light intermittent, and less than the dead spaces in between.  Obie’d done real damage. 

More irony.  Tony was going to get his movement back, but the reactor was going to die on him before he could get down to the workshop. He was going to die before the paralysis wore off. This was worse than Afghanistan.  It was worse than anything.

He’d wanted a drink.  If he was dying anyway, he could have one drink, right? The burn of the scotch hitting his throat, he could have that, one last time.

He wanted to tell Pepper and Rhodey how much they meant to him, how much he loved them.  He wasn’t sure if they knew.  He tried, but sometimes he knew he said the wrong things. He threw gifts at them instead of being able to say that he cared.  He was pretty sure they knew.  But he wished he could be sure.

Hell, as long as he was wishing.  He could still feel the warm, firm pressure of Steve’s arms around him, however brief the moment had been.  The way the sunlight had glinted off his stupid eyelashes at the mini golf park.  The feeling of his hand on Tony’s wrist, gently stroking his hand, calming him.  The way he’d looked at him when Tony told him to go, like maybe he wanted to come back.  Like maybe he wanted in some small part to stay.  Like maybe there was something in Tony that was worth coming back to. Just having him around, being a friend.  Just being near him. It would be enough. 

He shut his eyes.  Remembered what it felt like to be held in Steve’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dialogue is partially from im1, oh, and im2. and avengers, a little. so credit where it's due.  
> also, I had to make minor changes to chapters 10 and 11 (I think) for continuity.


	14. Chapter 14

Okay.  Steve was pissed.  Livid.  But that wasn’t going to do anyone any good.  Anger wouldn’t tell him who was behind it.  It wouldn’t tell him anything.  Maybe he should call Tony.  No, that was a dumb move.  What would he say—whoever was selling your weapons was targeting my commandos? It sounded like blame.  It sounded pathetic. No.  He had to figure it out first.  And maybe he was interpreting wrong. 

Bucky couldn’t help; he’d barely picked up slang overseas.  Languages, he said, were just not his thing.  But Natasha, when she got home.  She spoke more languages than Steve did.  Everything her unit might have come in contact with on assignment, from Russian to some elementary Hindi. So Steve could wait.  Verify.  Nat should be home soon anyway.  It had been hours since she started back.  And it wasn’t like this issue was time sensitive—he’d been working on it for weeks.  Okay.  Then he’d wait.  Maybe it was nothing. That would be the worst.  It would sound like he’d made up an excuse to call. 

And the worst part was, he did want a reason to call, excuse or otherwise.  Tony had said he was free to go, but apparently, in truth, he wasn’t free.  He didn’t want to go.  He’d told himself it was an infatuation.  Tony was smart and sexy.  Easy to develop a crush on someone like that.  But it was more than his charm.  It was the way he cared about everything.  The way he stayed up too late trying to get projects done, because he knew that he could fix it, and if he could fix it, men and women would be safer on the field. It was the way he seemed to singlehandedly help a world that continually tried to tear him down, that didn’t deserve him.

Steve stood up and went to the sink.  There weren’t very many dishes to be done, but he carefully washed each one and set them in the rack.  Then he picked up a new towel, wiped each dish, and put it away in the cabinet.  He reordered the porcelain mugs so that they were all facing down, handles turned toward the front right corner of the cabinet.  Easy for all of them to grab.

Bucky emerged from the bathroom, grey towel wrapped around his waist, hair damp.  “Fuck.  I am never drinking anything ever again. That shit’s the devil.” He yawned and shook his head so that his hair sent little droplets flying. Nat’s pink hairband was back on his wrist. “So what’s your good news?” His voice sounded particularly casual.

Steve turned from the cabinet where he’d been arranging the water glasses.  “The senator won’t show up here ever again.  He won’t be a problem anymore.  Tony gave me my contract—the original. He found it last night and handled Stern.  Turns out breaking in was actually the right way to go about it, apparently, so I take everything back. Continue your life of crime.” He tried for a joking tone, but came up short. 

“Tony, huh?  Not Mr. Stark?”

Damn.  He’d sort of hoped Bucky hadn’t caught that, but it slipped out.  Hard to think about _Tony_ as “Mr. Stark.” He wiped his hands and meticulously folded the striped towel, hanging it on the oven handle before sitting back down in front of Bucky’s laptop.

“Really, Buck? I tell you that breaking and entering is a good idea and you want to make an issue outta what I call the guy?”

Bucky opened the cabinet, noticed how the mugs were all aligned but didn’t say anything.  He poured himself another cup of coffee, slowly stirring in about a quarter cup of sugar.

“Diabeetus,” Steve said, helpfully.

Bucky ignored him and kept stirring. He tested it, drawing it up to see if the sugar was lurking at the bottom. 

Tony always did that, when he made his own coffee.  He never seemed to test it when Steve made it for him.  Of course, Steve had always made sure the grains had dissolved.  He pushed the thought aside. 

Satisfied that the crystals were gone, Bucky plinked the spoon pointedly down into the dishwasher, grabbed the mug, and made his way over to the table. 

“You’re gonna wait for Nat wearing a towel?” Steve asked.

Bucky continued to ignore his attempt at diversion. “So.  Tony.”

“What? I’ve been working there for almost a month.  He’s friendly. We got to know each other pretty well. We’re friends. He told me to call him Tony.” It sounded pleading even to himself.

Bucky looked at him hard, over his coffee. 

“Steve.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.  He’s a nice guy.  A good guy. That’s it.”

“Steve.”

“Stop saying my name like that!” He was defensive now, but he couldn’t help it. It was still sort of a sore spot.  And embarrassing. He’d thought _Tony Stark_ was into him.  It was ludicrous, and arrogant, and humiliating.  Painful, if he wanted to be truthful with himself.  It hurt.  Rejection always did, even if it wasn’t the fault of the other person.

Bucky pushed the lid of his laptop shut and set his hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “Steve, I’ve known you since we were small enough to wear diapers. I was there when you decided horses were evil without ever having met one in person—“

“We live in Brooklyn, Buck, how was I supposed to find a real horse?”

“—and I stood by you during your stupid ultimate Frisbee stage in high school.  I watched you burn up your insides with Howard Stark’s death ray—“

“It’s not a death ray, it literally—“

“Shut up, asshat, I’m trying to make a speech—and I know you wired part of your last paycheck to that kid you saved in Afghanistan.  I know you, man. I know you. What happened?”

Steve sat back, seeming to shrink in on himself, mouth tight. Then he shrugged, shook his head briefly.  “Nothing.  Nothing happened.  I was stupid, I misread some signals. We got our wires crossed.”

Bucky looked surprised.  “You didn’t go for him? I thought you’d think he was cute, all brainy and shit. Otherwise I wouldn’t’ve left you there in the first place, paying for that stupid rose thing or not.”

Steve blushed, horribly. He could feel it. “I did.” He swallowed. “I do.” Just say it. “He’s not into me.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bucky, c’mon. I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true!”

“No way. I call bullshit.  I saw the way he was checking you out the first day.  There’s absolutely no way he didn’t wanna tap that.  And if he actually ‘got to know you,’” he put airquotes around it, rolling his eyes, “like you say, then there’s no way.  Dude, Steve, if I was into dudes, I’d be all over you.  I mean, that sounds weird an’ all, but I mean it.  You know I thought Nat was hanging with our unit cause she wanted you, at the beginning, and you were so goddamn clueless I couldn’t even get mad at you for it. You’re a good guy.  The best.  And if he thought you were hot to begin with, I know, hand to God, he’d only want you more when he got to know you.” He raised his right arm high. “I’d put the other hand on a Bible, but, yknow.” He smirked.  

Steve smiled, involuntarily.  “That was sort of weird for a pep talk, Buck.  But thanks.  I know you’re trying to help.”

“And I saw that interview, too, the one Stern saw.  I watched it with Nat.  Did you see the way he was looking at you when you shut down that reporter? I’m telling you.  All gooey and heart eyes, I swear. He looked like he was thinking about what he was going to name the kids you two are gonna have.”

“I don’t think that’s what you saw, Bucky.  He was just tired that day. He’d had a long night and she was being very rude, she doesn’t understand that he’s a really good person, that he tries so hard to make everyone’s lives better. And I just…”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, catching something in his tone. “Jesus.  You’re in love with the guy.”

Steve didn’t answer.  _Yes_. Steve wanted to wrap Tony up and protect him, tell him how amazing he was, just be in the same space—he felt lighter and happier when he was with Tony, even bringing him coffee, getting to see him when he’d just woken up, lax and gentle, he wanted to spend every late night listening to him quantify what he needed to work on the next day, he wanted to shield Tony from aggressive reporters at press conferences and beam with pride at how he handled himself and hold him and comfort him afterward. He wanted to cover that ridiculous bed in a thousand silky rose petals and spread Tony down within them. He wanted everything with Tony.  He wanted to give everything to him. _Yes._

Bucky eyed him suspiciously for a minute and made a dissatisfied sort of noise in the back of his throat as he stood up.  He stepped into the bedroom to drop the towel in favor of a pair of sweats, not bothering to close the door. From inside the darkened room, he called back, “You know, I bet I just turn a garden hose on you when you’re wearing a tshirt and some tight jeans and Stark would claw his way through a rosebush to get to you.”  

This time Steve laughed.  “Not getting any less weird.”

Bucky returned carrying his shirt and plopped into his chair. “Hey man, I only speak the truth. I saw the interview—he’d be half wanting to rip the wet shirt off you with his teeth and the other half trying to make sure I didn’t give you another cold.”

The door opened.  They hadn’t heard footsteps, so it was definitely Natasha.  She was the only one tiny enough that the steps didn’t creak. Both men turned to look at her.  She briefly glanced at Steve, an implicit smile, and turned that gaze on Bucky, a fierce, intent light in her eyes.  She didn’t say hello, just walked by them into the bedroom, leaving them to look at each other in confusion. She emerged a second later, walked over to them, stood directly in front of Bucky, and put her left hand down on the table. It clinked.

Very gently, she took his face in her right hand and brought his eyes to look at her.  She slid the left hand toward him, then drew it up to interlace with his fingers that were holding his shirt.  “Whenever you’re ready,” she said, clear and low. She kissed him.  “I’ll never walk out on you.” A plain gold band glinted on the table.

For a second, Bucky sat, stunned.  Steve didn’t want to breathe.  He didn’t want to break the moment. Then Bucky lunged for Natasha, hand tangled in her hair, mouth on hers, bending down so much she was angled backward. He tipped her back, lifting her on to the kitchen table, pinning her down.  _Well.  This is awkward,_ Steve thought.  He considered how to extricate himself from the situation, but he had been caught supporting Nat’s leg where he sat.  Eventually, he cleared his throat. Bucky just slid his mouth down to her neck, licking her throat and the divot between her collarbones.  The shirt he’d almost put on lay forgotten in a little russet heap on the floor. Finally, Steve gave up. 

“Um,” he said. “I assume that was a yes?”

Bucky opened an eye and looked over at him with mock irritation.  With a final kiss, he pulled Natasha up and into his lap. “Yes,” he said, looking at her. “That was definitely a yes.”

She kissed the top of his head and slid the ring onto his right hand.  “Love you,” she said fondly.  Then she turned to Steve.  “Thank you, Steve.  I owe you one.”

Steve smiled and waved it away.  “I’m happy you two are happy.”

Bucky dragged his gaze away from Natasha, although his arm was still around her waist, keeping her firmly in his lap.  “Steve.  I am a happily engaged man, so you gotta trust me, ‘cause I am an expert, when I tell you—“

“Bucky, you didn’t even do the asking—“

“Doesn’t matter, stop interrupting me, you ever been engaged? No? Then shut up, you wouldn’t know. My point is, I am an expert in love and relationships, and I am telling you, Stark is 100% in lust _and_ love with you.”

Natasha nodded, looking at over at Steve while she pulled Bucky’s hair back into a hairband.  “Of course he is. We saw the way he was looking at you. Besides, who doesn’t want you?”

He could hear Tony saying almost the same thing, in the car on the way to mini golf.  But, he’d meant it generally, he was just being nice. He’d said himself that he was straight. Steve told the others as much.

Natasha looked surprised.  “He said that? He said, ‘Steve, I only have sex with people who have vaginas?’”

“Well, not in so many words, Nat! I didn’t ask him to anatomically describe his ideal date!”

“It would have been Steve’s dick,” Bucky threw in, stage whispering.

“No, seriously, Steve. What did he say?” Nat asked, elbowing Bucky in the ribs.

“He.  I thought he.” Why was it so hard to say? “I thought he was going to kiss me, on the way home.” Steve was bright red. Embarrassment, desire, disappointment. “After I’d helped out at a party instead of his old PA. But then he apologized and said…” He sifted through the memory, wanted to get the words exactly right.  “He said: ‘That wasn’t like me to do something like that. I’m not like that.’ That seems pretty clear to me.”

Bucky looked unconvinced, unable to hold back a quick, “I told you though, Nat, the man was ogling Steve’s ass like it was ice cream on a hot day!” as he pulled on his shirt.

Steve really didn’t need that visual.  At all. The thought of Tony’s tongue licking—well, it didn’t help, although he didn’t think he could blush any harder.

Natasha looked at Bucky sternly, then put her hands over his ears, a funny expression on her face. “Steve,” she started.

“I can still hear you, you know,” Bucky interjected.

“Steve,” Natasha repeated, “can I present you with a hypothetical? Remember Hodge?”

Bucky went still.

“Sure,” Steve replied, “we hated him.  He was a manipulative asshole, a bully, always trying to throw his weight around. He was so sleazy he made my skin crawl.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.  So, imagine, just for a second, if he got put in charge of an integrated unit.  A few women under his command—the beginnings of combat for women, trying to win their way into true combat positions with combat pay. Trying to prove themselves. Had to… get his approval… to get through.” She made a face, meaning clear.

Steve was horrified, incensed.  “No.” He wished he could believe that kind of thing didn’t happen, but he also wasn’t naïve.  How many of those scenarios happened daily? Too many. “Were you…”

“In his third round of trainees,” she said, poised and collected. “Some brave woman in his second round reported him. Right before he flunked her out.  They wanted proof.  I’d made a reputation for myself—they sent me.” She kissed Bucky’s temple, removing her hands.  It wasn’t like they’d done any good anyway. He clearly already knew, based on his body language. “Nothing happened.  Not to me.  I wore a wire, got enough to make the case against him and got out.”

“Christ, Nat.  That was fucking heroic.”

She smiled at him, a bit wryly.  “Nah, the hero’s the girl who reported the scumbag in the first place.  Look, Steve.  I’m just saying.  In this hypothetical, you’re me. You worked for him, he held all the cards.  And Stark, he thinks he’s Hodge.  I know, he’s not.  But he thinks he is. I think he was apologizing because he didn’t mean to overstep.  Didn’t mean to come on to someone if that person couldn’t say no.”

   Steve ran it over in his mind a few times.  Is that what Tony had meant?  Maybe Natasha was right.  He’d asked if he could come in, after his apology.  Steve hadn’t made anything of it at the time, but it fit Nat’s theory.  Or was that his stupid heart again, full of hope and optimism and running away from his brain? But his heart hadn’t imagined Tony’s fingertips on Steve’s face.

Back to the plan.  Well, the modified plan. Find the loose thread in SI. Bring it to Tony. Thank him for protecting Bucky. Muster up the courage to lay out his heart, no expectations other than that he might have been right in the first place, and hope for the best.  It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something. Somewhere to start.    

 

Steve hopped in the shower, still trying not to think about ice cream, and gave Natasha the video without his translation.  She didn’t need it, and he wanted independent confirmation.  She wrote down what Raza was saying, not falling for Steve’s misinterpretations. She noted the dates and the location, moving swiftly through the messages.  She’d made her way through the chain by the time he was done getting dressed. Impressive, as always. Steve looked them over.  He’d been pretty close, but her translations were better than Google. He handed the notes to Bucky. 

“Just, tell me what you see.” He held his breath.  Maybe he had been wrong.  Maybe this was something else entirely.  He could have been overly suspicious, overly protective, like Bucky was always saying that he was.

“Um, it’s about a year ago? Hey, we were there a year ago.  It’s the—“ he broke off suddenly.  “Holy shit, is that what I think it is?”

Steve closed his eyes.  Fuck. Opened them. “I don’t know.  What do you think it is?”

“Treason!  An _American_ ordered a hit on us.  Whoever this is, this Iron Monger fucker, that’s fucking treasonous! Nat, we have to find whoever the hell this guy is.”

She downloaded another chunk of messages. They were largely congratulatory.  Iron Monger was pleased to see that everything had gone as planned. No rescue group left in the area.  They’d all been flown out.  Time for phase two. Raza, according to Natasha, had said he was ready for the next target and the big guns.  A deal was a deal, he insisted.

The recording, scratchy and metallic, caught the loud, jolly sound of Iron Monger’s laughter.  “Yeah, it sure is, m’boy,” the American voice said heartily. “You’ll get your Jericho when you eliminate Tony Stark.”

Oh god.  He knew that smug, oily voice. The voice that told a warlord to kill Tony.  He’d heard it say “m’boy” before, not even a full day ago. That was Obadiah Stane.

He was dialing before he even realized it. It rang endlessly. He bypassed voicemail (thank you, Pepper, you’re a genius) and let it ring, nerves beginning to eat at him.  There was no reason to think anything was amiss, but Tony always picked up the phone when he called.  Always.  He’d never even had to use the voicemail trick before.  Even when he was in that meeting with Legal, when Steve knew he wouldn’t use Jarvis.  He didn’t talk to Jarvis when other people were around. Fuck, Tony, pick up the phone! 

Finally, Tony answered. “Steve?”

God it was so good to hear his voice. He sounded tired, but Steve had never been so relieved.  “Tony, I’m so glad I got ahold of you!”

Then he heard a soft thud and a high whine, not the product of a larynx.  “Tony?” No one answered.  “Tony? Tony, please answer me!” His pulse raced. What the hell was going on? He hit video.  He could see Tony, on the couch, a panicked look in his eye, but the phone was moving, the picture shaky, Tony was definitely not holding the phone anymore but who was? A flash of one of the many mirrors that Tony had said Pepper’s designer scattered around “for Feng Shui,” a brief reflection of a tall bearded man, shiny bald pate. The line went dead.  Fuck. 

Steve tossed his phone to Natasha, who caught it midair, a questioning look on her face.  “Call Pepper, she’s #2 in contacts, have her contact Colonel Rhodes, Air Force, and tell him Obadiah Stane is trying to kill Tony.” Maybe Pepper could get someone sent over sooner. Maybe Rhodes would have someone in the area.  Damnit, why had he left Tony alone when Happy was still out of town?

“Steve!” Nat called after him, but he was already halfway down the stairs, keys in hand.  It should take about forty minutes to get to Manhattan, but he thought he could do it in closer to twenty on the bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me all squishy :D  
> Next section is almost done.   
> Trying to decide if I want to earn that M rating for real or not...


	15. Chapter 15

The front door was flung open.  Heavy footsteps came hurriedly toward the living room. Fuck, why was Obadiah back? Wanted another go at the reactor? Forgot his phone? Tony forced his eyes open, gasping. He didn’t have a lot of control, but Stane was going to have to look him in the eye. He let his eyes adjust, seeing the tall form enter the living room.

Steve?

Steve was by his side in an instant, his eyes taking in the scene at one glance. Tony felt gentle fingertips on the side of his neck.

“Tony, tell me what to do! Should I call a doctor? What happened? Please, stay with me.”

Tony could hear the frantic thread in his voice, the pleading.  He remembered the blown out, drained, lonely look on Steve’s face when he’d brought him water. He’d been devastated, guilty, those events weighed on him, preyed on him.

Fuck this.  Tony was not going to die on Steve.  He was not going to leave him with yet another mess to clean up, another nightmare.  He was not going to do that to him.  It took him two tries, putting all the will he had left into moving his mouth, but he managed to wheeze out, “Jarvis. Reactor.”

Steve’s eyes showed confusion, but he asked immediately, “Jarvis, what reactor?”

“Captain, sir left a new arc reactor with Dum-E.  It has not been tested, but the current circumstances seem to make that irrelevant.  It could save his life.”

Steve was unwilling to leave Tony alone, but he had to get the replacement.  “I’ll be right back,” he said, squeezing Tony’s hand. He raced downstairs, flung the rag off Dum-E, and seized the glowing cylinder, forgetting to hope that it was safe to touch. He sprinted back to the living room, snatching up the pair of pliers that were resting on the table.  Plucking the reactor out of Tony’s chest took all his courage, praying it didn’t hurt, talking to him the whole time. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, please, just be okay, stay with me, it’ll be okay, you’ll be alright, sweetheart, please stay with me, don’t leave me—“ he detached a connector, holding his breath. God, this had better work.  He clipped in the new device, fitted it neatly into the cavity, and clutched Tony’s hands tightly.

 

Tony was burning from the inside out.  His heart thudded painfully in his chest, the sound thrumming in his ears, the air acrid and metallic. Every cell was swelling, sparking, filled with light, exploding.  His veins ran with liquid fire.

He couldn’t see. The world was white and shimmering, ablaze in a sea of radiance.

Steve had called him _sweetheart_.

 

The light dimmed, faded to afternoon sunshine, melting at the edges to twilight.  Steve, blue eyes watching him intently, hope growing.

Tony coughed, still tasting metal, but movement had returned, the paralytic purged from his system. “Steve.”

Steve still knelt next to him, holding his hands, barely breathing.  He was alive. Tony was alive, color coming back to his skin, the new reactor glowing steadily. Steve had to tell him, to show him.  He’d almost missed his chance.  “Tony.” His voice caught. “I.” He swallowed.  Carefully, he brought Tony’s hand to his mouth, very gently kissed the tips of his fingers, making his lips as soft as he could.

“Steve,” Tony started, making himself sit up.

“I know, you know what I am, what I’m not, I don’t want you to feel pressured, like I told you at the beginning, I’m just a kid from Brooklyn, it’s all I am, but everything that I am I want to give to you, I just, I want to make the world better with you. I want to make the world better for you. If you want…”

Tony reached out, his fingertips still tingling from the feeling of Steve’s lips, resting them resolutely against Steve’s warm mouth, lightly dragging it down to him, licking his lips, his breath shaky, other hand gently tracing the line of Steve’s neck.

He remembered moonlight, quiet, a breeze.

This time, Steve reached for him.

His mouth was warm, sweet, lips caressing Tony’s, consuming him, easing over his mouth, his face, his eyelids, a line of searing kisses down his throat. Tony swallowed, catching his breath, then chased Steve’s mouth, reclaiming it, hand on his jaw, guiding his mouth back to Tony’s, he couldn’t get over the taste of him, the way his lips parted for him, searched for his.

Steve kissed him again, then pulled away. Why was he pulling away?

Footsteps.

“Shit, Steve, Obie’s coming back, he’s here to find my body; he has some sort of weapon, like a sonically powered taser or something, it paralyzed me.” They didn’t have any time, the footsteps were almost in the room.

Steve picked Tony up and swept him over to the top of the stairs. 

This was the wrong time to get all flustered by that kind of a move, but damn, that was hot.

“Lock down the workshop; he can’t get you in there,” Steve ordered as he turned around to block Obadiah’s path to Tony.

Again, this was the absolute wrong time to get a hard on but Jesus, how had anyone in Steve’s unit gotten anything done when he gave commands in that voice?

“Rogers!” called a voice, low but decidedly female.

“Nat, what the hell are you doing with a gun?” Steve asked, clearly relaxing. Barnes’s girlfriend moved into the living room, red hair aflame in the afternoon sun.  Barnes followed close on her heels, a rifle slung over his back.

“It’s licensed, _Dad_ ,” Barnes retorted. Steve gave him a look. Wow. “Nat has licenses, I’m just here with her,” Barnes backtracked, cowed.

Natasha had moved to cover the other side of the room, keeping an eye on the doors.  “Pepper said Colonel Rhodes is on his way, Hogan is having a shit fit, and she’s flying him back in tonight.  She is rounding up the lawyers and she said that Stane was supposed to have an appointment in,” she checked her watch, “just a few minutes so she wanted to bring in private security.” She pulled another gun from the small of her back and slid it over to Steve.  “I told her not to bother.”

Tony wondered what else she was keeping stored on her.  He decided not to ask. Discretion being the better part of valor and all that.

Steve picked up the gun. “Right.  Tony, I don’t want to ask it of you…”

“No, I’m actually a genius, you know, I get it: I’m bait. Back on the couch with me.”

Steve’s face went still. “He won’t touch you.  He won’t.” His tone dropped. “I’ll tear him apart if he tries.” Tony believed him. Completely. Steve addressed the other two. “Stane has some sort of electronic taser or something. Tony?”

“It’s small.  Handheld, oval.  It causes paralysis. Don’t let him activate it.”

Steve gave him a tiny smile before getting back to business.  “If you see it, neutralize it. We want him alive, for trial, make him come clean.  Romanoff, close quarters, cut off retreat.  Barnes, cover the field. Anyone sees him make a move on Tony, take the shot.”

Tony felt a little shiver run down his spine.

Steve turned toward him. “I’d feel better if you were in your workshop.”

“If he doesn’t see me lying there, he’ll get suspicious.”

“Still…”

Barnes’s voice came from the distance. “Vehicle approaching. Stane and one armed.”

“Barnes, cover Stane; Tash, take the gun.” Steve melted into the background.

Tony sat on the couch, shirt covering the reactor, pliers back on the table. Footsteps.  Great. Not just Obie, but he brought along one of his low-life goons masquerading as security.

Through nearly closed eyes, he could see the light shift as Natasha moved to stand in the doorway. They’d have to get through her to get out.  She leaned casually against the doorframe but the gun in her hand was unmistakable.  Steve moved out of the shadows to stand behind Tony.

Tony opened his eyes, pulling open his shirt to reveal the light within.  He would not miss the expression on Obadiah’s face when he got outmaneuvered.  There it was.  He knew he was screwed.

Obie opened his mouth but Steve beat him to it. “Lay down the weapon.”

The hired gun couldn’t seem to decide who to aim at, Steve or Natasha. 

“Not the help, you idiot, take out Stark!” Obadiah snarled, reaching into his pocket with one hand while stuffing something in his ear with the other.

Steve read the long play instantaneously.  The goon kills Tony or gets shot by Natasha and Steve, depending on who was quicker on the draw, while Obadiah paralyzes the rest of them.  Shoots them all, frames it as a hit for hire, gone bad, emerges a tragic hero.

No.

Steve would not accommodate this bastard’s plans. Stane was outplayed this time.

The hired gun moved, aiming at Tony, as Obie pulled a small capsule-shaped disc out of his pocket.

Two shots rang out simultaneously as Steve bodily hauled Tony over the couch.

The armed man lay on the floor. Wasn’t moving.

Obie was screaming, clutching his fingers. Natasha moved closer, weapon trained on him, as she kicked the taser and the thug’s gun toward Tony. “Don’t be such a baby,” she said coldly.

“The Colonel and Miss Potts,” Barnes called, swinging down from an alcove in the wall, however the hell he’d managed to get up there in the first place. “They just pulled in.”

Steve shot a quick smile at Tony, pulling him up.

“You shot me!” Stane roared at him. Colonel Rhodes burst into the room, Pepper only a few steps behind him.  “That man shot me!” Stane bellowed to the Colonel. “Arrest him!”

“You shot him?” Rhodes asked Barnes, severely. Bucky and Natasha were both standing at attention, although technically Natasha’s gun was still pointed at Stane’s head.

“Yes, sir,” Barnes answered tersely.

“Nice!” Rhodey exclaimed, going for a fist bump.  “Relax, Barnes, I owe you one. Besides, you’re not in uniform.”

Stane’s jaw dropped.

Barnes grinned, offering a fist in return. “It was only an airsoft, sir, no reason for him t’be bawlin’ like that.”

“You broke my hand!” Stane whined, outraged, fingers hanging at an awkward angle.

“Well, yeah, I did that,” Barnes admitted, definitely not the least bit sorry. Stane cradled his hand, whimpering.

Pepper had walked over to the other man, still lying on the floor.  She looked for blood, but there didn’t seem to be any.  Eventually she poked at his cheek with the point of her shoe.  “What about this one?”

“That one’s mine.” Natasha grinned, lowering her weapon. Stane couldn’t really run.

Pepper grinned back. “Is he dead? I’m not objecting or anything, but the PR might be a challenge.”

“Nope, just out cold. It’s sort of like a stun gun. I’d tell you, but it’s proprietary.”

Pepper’s grin brightened.  She turned toward Tony. “Tony! I was so worried!”

“I was wondering when you were going to notice me,” he said, sulkily.  He wasn’t actually upset, though.  Steve hadn’t let go of his hand.  His blue eyes kept drifting toward the reactor, seeming to be comforted by the constancy.

Sirens sounded in the distance.  The police were on their way.  This whole horrible day was almost over. He looked around.  “J, did you get tape of his confession from earlier?”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis replied, sounding enormously satisfied.  Obie and Barnes flinched at the voice. Natasha blinked rapidly.

“Tony, Tony, Tony.  I am not going to prison,” Obadiah blustered, standing up and drawing himself up to his full height. “Your father, Howard never would have sent me to prison.  He knew what we were trying to build here, Tony! Now that was a man with a vision! And you were a mess, you know you were, you were drinking and partying and was tearing down the business, m’boy!”

That stung, because he was right. Tony had been a mess.  He had been. Irresponsible and stupid, young, a complete disaster.

“And we know you’re just going to fall into your old ways! You’ll get one taste of alcohol or a new and shiny toy, and we know you’re going to be just like before. I was only trying to do right by your father, Tony, to make him proud!” There was a very loud _the way you didn’t_ implied at the end. Silent, but no less clear.

And fuck, that was true, too, wasn’t it? He did still want a drink, he did still have weaknesses, and he never had made Howard proud.

He felt Steve’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back.  After all, Steve knew, and Steve had had to play defense for him. That was how weak he was. Couldn’t stand on his own.

Suddenly, his hand was swinging loosely by his side, Stane was yelping, his nose gushing blood, and Steve was giving Tony a somewhat sheepish look from across the room, rubbing his knuckles. 

“Sorry,” Steve stammered, guiltily.  “I’m sorry, Tony, he was just, and I couldn’t, you looked so… Jarvis, did you, um…”

“I’m afraid I’ve had a momentary glitch in my system, Captain, and I seem to have erased all the footage of the house from the last few seconds. I do so apologize for the inconvenience, but I seem not to have gotten a recording of when Mr. Stane walked into that door,” Jarvis replied smoothly.

“Good man, Jarvis,” Rhodey noted, impressed. “Dunno how that door knew he had it coming.”

The man on the floor started twitching, finally. Pepper poked him with her shoe again.  “Miss Romanoff, he’s sort of jerking around a little.  Does it hurt?”

Natasha grinned back, all teeth.  “A lot.”

“How interesting,” Pepper observed, pleased.  “Oh, the police are here! I’ll just pop out and meet them. Over here! Thank you for coming, we were _so_ frightened!” she called out to them, striding nimbly on top of the prone body with her stilettos on her way out.  Steve thought she maybe stepped with extra force on his sensitive bits, especially with the heels.

Tony buttoned up his shirt before a sea of cops flooded in, taking their cues from Pepper and Rhodey.  When they hauled Stane off in cuffs, Tony let out a little sigh he hadn’t known he’d been keeping in.  Steve had made his way back to his side, standing close enough that Tony could feel almost feel him, but not quite touching.  Tony turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow to indicate his question. 

Steve looked pointedly around the room, the cops finishing up, Pepper, Rhodey. Then he smiled faintly. “I’m all in, Tony. But… I can wait.”

Tony didn’t have to look around the room.  This was what mattered.  He reached for Steve’s hand, pulled him close, luxuriated in the feeling of being near him. He saw Pepper notice and tear up.  She bumped into Rhodey who looked over and nodded, satisfied.  Natasha and Barnes just exchanged a look.  Then they turned the same expression on Steve, who blushed faintly. 

The cops left. Pepper came over and hugged him, kissing his cheek.  She turned to Steve and hugged him, too. She still had tears in her eyes. 

Rhodey, Barnes, and Natasha were talking shop, Rhodey clearly impressed by the shot Barnes had made and still curious about what Natasha had used. They parted ways, Natasha winding her arm around Barnes and tucking her small hand into his back pocket. 

“Brunch here, tomorrow, 11am, everyone’s invited. It’s mandatory,” Tony announced.  They had questions, he was sure.  He owed them all some answers.  About the arc reactor.  About Stane. 

Barnes glared at him, mock-irritated, but Natasha smiled, so he was pretty sure they were in.

 “We’ll be there, Tones.  You’re not cooking, though, are you?” Rhodey asked.

“Steve’s cooking.  He’ll owe me breakfast,” Tony said, winking. Rhodey just shook his head.

“You guys should have ice cream tonight,” Barnes told Steve as they made their way toward the door. Steve turned crimson.  Nat reached up to give him a hug, slipping his phone into his hand. The two stepped out into the shadows cast by the sinking sun, blue silhouettes stretching long across the grounds, bathed in the scarlet and purple tones of sunset.

Pepper and Rhodey made their way out together, in intense discussion about Barnes and Romanoff.  She turned back at the door, looking at the pair still standing inside.  She took a deep breath, a smile settling across her face, and shut the door quietly behind her.

And then it was just Steve. Steve pulled Tony to him, folded him into his arms, a small tremble that hadn’t been there before.  He sighed, kissed Tony’s hair, rubbed his hands down Tony’s back. 

“I’ll leave if you want me to.  I can sleep in my old room.  I just don’t want to leave you alone, here.  I almost lost you. I can’t lose you.”

Tony pressed himself closer into Steve’s warmth.  “Stay.” Steve’s whole body relaxed. “Then you won’t have to wake up to check on me in the middle of the night.”

“Jarvis,” Steve scolded, “you weren’t supposed to out me. I thought we had a deal.”

Tony chuckled.  “He didn’t.  I noticed one night.  You came downstairs, just a pair of sweats on, saw I was still working, and disappeared.  You showed up an hour later, too.  After that, it was almost like I wanted to keep working so I could keep getting haunted by the ghost of Christmas Sexy.”

“Tony, I. I’m just. You know what I am, you saw the photos.  That’s all I am. This is just a show, it’s not real.”

Tony could feel Steve’s muscles tense, ready to release him when he remembered that Steve wasn’t the Ken doll he’d accused him of being before. That wouldn’t do.  He wound one arm around Steve’s neck, cupping Steve’s face with his other hand.  “I do know what you are. I do. You’re kind, and insightful.  You believe the best in everyone, never stop trying to make things right.  You’re the person who wants to make refugee camps feel like home, the person who gives everything he has for other people.” He paused, pulling Steve into a kiss. He ran a hand over Steve’s chest. “The package is nice, Steve, literally my dad’s greatest creation, since he was kind of an asshole who focused on designing new ways to kill people.  It’s nice, but it’s not what makes you amazing.”

“No, Tony,” Steve said gently, turning his head to softly kiss Tony’s palm. “His greatest creation is you.”

Tony couldn’t look at him, buried his face in Steve’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

 

 

The first time they make love, Steve is amazed by how much it feels like coming home.  His heart expands, feels whole, he cradles Tony like he’s precious, because he is. He draws the pleasure out, takes his time learning Tony’s body, kissing every inch of him.  He sees Tony looking at him, illuminated by the reactor and other starlight, and presses a kiss into the soft skin of his thigh.  He can feel Tony getting impatient, but this is important—he is important, and Steve is going to make sure he knows that, for him, this is it, this is everything. When he finally enters Tony, slowly, so slowly Tony’s pulse is racing in counterpoint, silently begging him to hurry up, he can feel his own body trembling with the effort, holding himself back, knows Tony can feel it as well.  Tony cups his cheek, smiles at him, eyes too bright, says, “Steve, please,” voice breaking, and Steve is ruined. After, Steve pulls Tony to him, lets him curl up lazily on his chest, while Steve runs fingers through his dark hair, traces the reactor, kisses Tony, light and sweet. He has never imagined anything could feel like this.  He never wants to let go.

 

The second time they have sex, Tony crawls out of Steve’s arms, drags him into the largest shower Steve has ever seen.  Tony lets Steve wash him, practically purrs when Steve takes his time working shampoo into his hair, pulling Tony back against his body, his cock already hard against Tony’s ass.  He turns his head to kiss him, trying to suck as much of Steve’s tongue into his mouth as he can. Steve smiles against his mouth, disengaging gently to rinse the suds out of Tony’s hair. He does a much more perfunctory job on himself, Tony notices.  He waits until Steve has just stepped out of the shower—out of danger of slipping, onto the plush mat—to sink to his knees, pushing Steve back up against the wall with his mouth. He looks up when he hears Steve’s breath, sharp, somewhere between a gasp and choking.  His hands are clenched, pressing hard into the wall.  That won’t do at all.  Tony grins as much as he can with his mouth as full as it is—and he’s pretty sure he’s never had the pleasure of a cock this thick before, but he definitely wants future visitation rights—pulls Steve’s hands off the wall and pushes them into his hair. Steve stops breathing and complies, tangling his fingers through Tony’s curls, but holds them there gently.  Not good enough.  Tony is going to blow his goddamn mind, Steve’s not going to be able to walk after this—even better, he’s not going to want to walk away.  Tony moans, throat constricting and vibrating around Steve, who lets out a groan, can’t help himself, fingers tightening and pulling, thrusting deep and rough for a few moments before remembering himself.  Tony whines a bit when Steve pulls back, but Steve literally picks him up, carrying him over to the bed. Tony loses his train of thought just about there.  Tony doesn’t let Steve take it slow this time, he opens himself up, quick and easy, straddles Steve, pushing him back onto the pillows, sinks down so quickly he can physically see Steve tighten with worry.  The tension disappears when Tony repeats the move quickly, over and over, shivering in obvious delight. Steve sets one hand on Tony’s hips, holding him in place so he can thrust up into his body, the other slicks him up and strokes him in rhythm, making Tony start cursing, babbling nonsense and endearments, Steve’s name interspersed throughout. Steve is shiny with sweat.  Tony is starting to go hoarse and he is close, so close. Steve releases his hip to catch Tony’s hand, watching him intently, brings Tony’s hands to his lips, kisses it, sucks one finger into his mouth, says, “Tony, sweetheart,” and Tony can hear the silent command. He doesn’t make a sound as he obeys, covering Steve in his mess, shuddering, spasms rippling through him, feeling Steve pulse deep inside him, and everything feels so right, so complete, so perfect, that he can’t breathe for a moment.  He realizes he isn’t lonely. He realizes he’s in love.  He realizes that he, too, is all in. 

 

The night continues its watch, sheltering them in the deep protection of starlight, sex eventually giving way to sleep after Tony tries to express his revelation with his body, with his touch, as many ways as he knows how, and Steve seems to understand, tries to show him that they are in this together.  

 

Tomorrow, they will have brunch with Pepper and Rhodey and Natasha and Bucky. Rhodey will discreetly not mention how well Tony works with Steve in the kitchen, happy to chop tomatoes or move bacon to the paper towel lined racks as long as he’s standing close, as long as he gets that quiet smile from Rogers. Tomorrow Tony will explain the reactor, earning sympathetic admonitions from Pepper and Rhodey, curiosity from Natasha, and a gentle squeeze of his hand from Steve; he will, with Steve’s permission, explain Project Rebirth.  Tomorrow Pepper will have paperwork with her, already, to invest in and hire the consulting business that Natasha is creating with Bucky and Steve to prevent civilian casualties, reduce overall losses, and build better relationships with indigenous populations to preclude the necessity of military action (Bucky wants to call it Defensive Agency for Strategy, Hostility Inhibition, and Tact Support.  He pretends not to know what it spells.  Natasha has put the kybosh on that). Steve wants to bring on Sam Wilson, too, once he’s done with night classes.  Sam had said he’d spent so much time listening to people as a bartender, he just went ahead and enrolled as a psych major. Tomorrow Jarvis will make a note to send him a contract.

Tomorrow, Barnes will make a gruff, half-ashamed apology for breaking in, giving Tony a warning glare when Steve isn’t looking.  Tony will start wondering if he can develop a better prosthetic than whatever the VA is going to give him, if that would win him over entirely. Natasha and Pepper will make a date to talk business, but it’s going to be over several bottles of wine and they’re going to be wearing sweats, not suits.

Tomorrow Tony will look over at Steve, across a room filled with their friends, only to find him already looking back.  He’ll realize that this is all he wants. And that it’s already his. And that it is only the beginning. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. that's it. i'm a little nervous. what do you think?


End file.
